


Statement Incomplete

by The_Watchers_Crown



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Collected Edition, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Refer to chapters 15 and 16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2019-10-05 17:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 33,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17329079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Watchers_Crown/pseuds/The_Watchers_Crown
Summary: "If you’re just humoring me, I’m going to be very put out,” Martin says.And then Martin kisses him. The Magnus Institute—the Archives—his office—just a foot away from where worms came spilling through the wall—there’s nothing romantic about where they are, but it feels like it can’t have happened anywhere else.Concerning the relationship between Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, and Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant. Previously postedin series form.





	1. Something reassuring

**Author's Note:**

> When I initially wrote the first few pieces of Statement Incomplete, I didn't intend for them to be more than a cute collection of vignettes. They weren't supposed to reach a point where they'd make more sense as a single, ongoing fic. That's changed. 
> 
> This is a collected edition. For the first 8 chapters you'll find the pieces that were posted individually. As of chapter 9 you'll find new material.

It’s late.

Well, it would be late, if “late” weren’t putting it generously.

It’s dreadfully, heinously late, and Jon shouldn’t still be tucked away in a corner of the Archives, but he hasn’t been sleeping, and he might as well be putting his restlessness toward something akin to productivity. So rather than being home in his bed, Jon sits at his desk with a looming mass of statement files and his watch aggressively reminding him that it’s now closer to morning than the middle of the night.

The statement in front of him is utter nonsense, a prattling, alcohol-fueled account of a ‘ghost’ swapping around electrical cords and leaving rude messages in refrigerator magnets. It’s a waste of time to make a recording of it at all, but if he doesn’t do it tonight, or today, or whenever it is, he’ll only be leaving it for the future. Better to record the incident of the passive aggressive flatmate when Tim’s not around to crack an unfunny joke.

So Jon reaches for his laptop with one hand and his long-cold tea with the other, and swears at the resulting _crash_ as the files avalanche their way onto the floor.

He’d like to take a moment to stare at the ceiling and wonder why he’s not asleep, but the tea is on the floor along with everything else, and it’s absurd to think it’s _maliciously_ running a river toward the files; he thinks it anyway. While he thinks it, he kneels on the floor, one knee landing in the cold liquid, and begins to gather up the statements.

“Not today, tea,” he says, and shakes his head, mostly at himself.

The heavy footsteps catch him off-guard. Nobody else ought to be here at this hour, not even Elias, and for several unpleasant seconds he thinks something has finally crawled out of the tunnels to eat him.

Then Martin bursts into the room and sees him kneeling there and stops.

They blink at each other.

Tea trickles toward a file and Jon snatches it away from the greedy rivulet.

“Jon,” Martin says, breathless from running. “I heard something fall and—I didn’t think anybody was here?”

“I should ask what _you’re_ doing here.” Jon spares a glance at his watch. “It’s half-four.”

“Oh.” Martin wrings his hands and then evidently remembers the mess in front of him. He collects a handful of tissues and begins to mop up the tea. “I, um, haven’t really felt comfortable back in my flat. I know it’s stupid, Prentiss got into the Institute just fine, and I wasn’t here to _sleep_ anyway, but…”

He trails off and spends a moment with his eyes fast on Jon’s hand.

Jon thinks he ought to say something reassuring; nothing comes immediately to mind, so instead he says a brisk, “Help me get this cleaned up.”

“Right!” Martin jumps, as though he’s been electrocuted instead of asked for assistance, and disposes of the tissues before beginning to collect his own stack of folders. He speaks softly all the while, reading off case numbers and names and offering his own commentary. He says, “These are all a lot of nonsense, aren’t they? You won’t need the tape recorder for any of them.”

Ordinarily, Jon would find Martin’s nonsense rambling aggravating. But it’s half-four and they’re both in the Archive even though it’s something of a terrible place to be when there are perfectly good mattresses and abandoned houses in the world, and there’s something almost comforting about the way he just keeps going, and then they both reach for the same file, and Jon’s hand lands on top of Martin’s, and they both—freeze, as it were.

There’s no reason for it. People make accidental contact all the time, and they are in close quarters at the moment, and it would make sense to just pull back his hand and move on into the next series of moments without acknowledging this one has happened. Without making it into more than an accidental brush of hands.

And though Jon likes to do things that make sense, not least to counter-balance the strangeness of his career, he doesn’t. He lets his hand settle onto Martin’s, and he waits to see what Martin will do.

 It takes a long time for Martin to do anything.

“Are you—” His voice is smaller than usual, a smidge more nervous. “Are you trying to hold my hand?”

Jon considers this. “Do you want me to?”

Martin replies to this by turning his hand upward and squeezing, not hard and for just a moment, and Jon hasn’t had time to register that when Martin’s already shooting to his feet and saying, “I’ll go and make fresh tea!” and tearing out of the room faster than he came in.

And Jon calls after him, “Don’t be long.”


	2. The situation being

Martin doesn’t know what to do with himself.

That is, he knows what he’s _doing_ , in the immediate sense. Making tea, that’s something he could manage in his sleep. He’s not altogether convinced that he’s not asleep right now. It would make more sense for the situation he’s in to be some product of his subconscious.

The situation being, he’s alone in the Institute with Jon. That bit’s not so unusual, in the scheme of things.

The situation being, he asked if Jon was trying to hold his hand.

The situation being, he did hold Jon’s hand. Sort of. Almost.

The situation being, he ran away from _that_ faster than he ran from the flesh worms or Gertrude Robinson’s body.

It’s just—

Martin looks at his own hand, where it rests on the countertop while he waits for the kettle to boil. His hand that he used to squeeze Jon’s, and Jon’s hand was incredibly warm where it lay on his, and he’d rather like to do that again.

For a bit longer this time, maybe?

But that’s a daft thought. If he wanted to properly hold Jon’s hand, he ought to have taken his chance back there, because it’s not possible that he’s going to get another. Not with Jon, who doesn’t even like him. Jon thinks he’s unqualified and incompetent and useless, and sometimes Martin thinks maybe he’s a little bit right (or a lot right, _completely_ right in some senses), but even if he felt like he could ask for a transfer or quit, even if he wasn’t stuck or caught or _whatever_ it is the Archive has done to him, even then he wouldn’t go anywhere, because then he wouldn’t see Jon anymore and the thought of that sucks the air right out of him. That besides, office romances are a bad idea at a normal workplace; giving it a shot in the Archive probably isn’t the best idea.

But—his fingers curl and he thinks about Jon’s face, a touch off-guard, and he thinks about “do you want me to?” in place of the scorn he’d expected, braced for, and—he really, really wants to.

The kettle whistles. Martin jumps, but the distraction is welcome. He’s fastidious as ever where the tea is concerned, and for those few minutes he’s not actively dwelling on how the rest of his night will play out. Or how the rest of his career at the Institute will play out. It occurs to him that this might have some impact on tomorrow (which is today, really), or the next day, or the next, and he feels a bit ill.

Jon’s not like that though. He won’t let Martin’s little moment of stupid hope change anything. Jon will be perfectly professional, and Martin will just have to do the same. He can do that. Of course he can.

Martin rifles through the cupboards for biscuits. It’s a ridiculous time for them, but they’ve a package of the kind Jon likes best, the ones with the chocolate drizzle, tucked away. Jon’s never outright said they’re his favorite; just he always reaches for them when Martin brings out a mixed plate, and he looks disappointed when they’re not there, and Martin pays attention to little things like that. So he puts everything on a tray, chocolate biscuits included, and is careful where he puts his feet on the walk back to the Archive.

The office is as dimly lit as it was when he left. Jon’s got the mess cleaned up, the files returned to stacks that aren’t as precarious as they could be, and he’s sat behind his desk. His laptop is open in front of him, but he’s not using it. Martin has spent a not-insignificant amount of time learning Jon’s facial expressions. He can’t place this one, and thinks it must be new, and wonders what it means, and wondering doesn’t mean he’s going to ask.

“I brought tea!” he says brightly, easing the tray onto a clear bit of desk.

Jon acknowledges him with a slight incline of his head. “So you said. Fresh tea.” He pauses. There’s something in that pause that makes Martin nervous. “Before you left.”

“Jon,” Martin says, knowing he sounds somewhat desperate, “we don’t have to talk about that. I’m just tired.”

“Are you?” Jon asks. His tone says he’ll accept that answer, if it’s the one Martin really wants to choose. Jon will let Martin say that he’s tired, and they’ll both go on and never talk about this again, and that sounds lovely and it sounds absolutely horrid and Jon’s hand is on the desk and Martin wants so badly to touch Jon’s hand, or his face, or maybe his hip, and if this goes badly he’ll hate himself, but he’ll also hate himself if he lets the opportunity mosey right on by.

“No,” Martin says, walking around the desk without thinking to do so, and Jon’s got to lean his head back to look at him. “Well, yes, I _am_ tired, but that’s not why I—that’s not why I said—what I said—” It wouldn’t be fair to say he’s losing steam, as that would suggest he ever had steam to begin with. He gives up on the whole business with words, and he grabs Jon’s hand, as it’s just _sitting there_.

“So,” Jon says, “you do want me to hold your hand.”

“Yes,” Martin says, and is surprised there’s not a bit of quiver in his voice.

Jon turns his palm up, just the way Martin did before, and laces their fingers together; Martin’s stomach performs an Olympics-worthy series of flips.

Martin says, cautious, “Jon, I, um—do you want to hold _my_ hand, or is this just your way of trying to stop me feeling humiliated?”

Jon gives him a look he would call withering on any other day. Now he’s not sure what to call it. “Martin.”

“Okay,” he says, and tries not to feel absurdly pleased about something as simple as holding the archivist’s hand. It doesn’t work, of course. It’s not often he’s got an excuse to smile this much, and it’s not often—it’s not _ever_ , before now—that he’s got Jon looking at him like he’s never really seen him before, and he squeezes Jon’s hand, and Jon’s thumb rubs along his knuckles.

“This is nice,” Martin says.

Jon reaches for a biscuit and says, “Yes, it is, isn’t it,” and Martin likes that it’s not at all a question.


	3. A terrible decision, really

There are any number of ways Jon might have expected to spend his sleepless hours at the Institute.

Stumbling across a statement he’d like to pass off as untrue, and would later set Sasha, Tim, and Martin to researching: unlikely but possible.

Scouring the Archives for some convenient missed clue that would spell out Gertrude Robinson’s murder in painstaking detail: probable, despite the obvious fruitlessness of it.

Dully recording a half dozen incidents without a hint of the truly supernatural about them and bound for the discredited pile: inevitable.

Sitting at his desk, holding Martin Blackwood’s hand: the possibility would never have cracked his top ten. Martin is surprisingly quiet, sipping his tea and occasionally passing Jon furtive looks that suggest he can’t quite believe this is happening; Jon does him the kindness of pretending not to notice. He’s at a bit of a loss himself.

He does _want_ to. That hadn’t been a lie. It simply hadn’t occurred to him it was something he wanted until it was already happening. It rarely occurs to him that people are something he might want. His love life is best described with words like infrequent and sparse and barren; he can’t remember the last time he went on a date, or even the last time he held somebody’s hand. He can’t remember the last time he wanted to. It’s been a long time since Georgie, and there certainly hasn’t been anybody noteworthy since.

Has there been anybody at all?

There could be Martin, he thinks, and wonders what that might look like.

It feels impossible. Out of reach. There’s no sense to somebody like Martin wanting somebody like him. Martin is his subordinate. Martin may have murdered Gertrude; he probably didn’t, but it’s not something he can rule out yet. Martin is sweet and trusting, and Jon is decidedly not. Aside from that, speaking from a strictly superficial perspective, with Prentiss having left her mark, Jon knows he’s—well. Martin, with his freckles and his curls and his nervous smile, would be better suited to somebody closer to handsome.

“Martin,” Jon says, “don’t you think you can do better?”

Martin frowns at him like he’s said he wants to move out of his flat and into the tunnels. “No, I don’t think I can.”

 Jon says, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Oh,” Martin says, and seems to deflate a little. Then, with the same stubbornness he displayed in chasing Jon out of the Archives when he tried to return too early, he sticks his chin out and says, “Does it have to be?”

“Martin,” Jon says again, but Martin barrels on over him.

“You’re my boss, I know, I know, and things are really _weird_ around here lately—er, weirder than usual, I mean, and I’ve always thought you don’t actually like me very much, but that hasn’t stopped me fancying you and I do, I really, _really_ do, and even if it’s not a good idea I’d like to give it a try.” He pauses, red-faced, but not looking away. “If that’s okay with you?”

“Ah,” Jon says.

It’s an exercise in futility, really, convincing himself that he’s going to do anything aside from what he does next: he stands up and kisses Martin, and the sound Martin makes, all surprised and delighted and needy, is plenty enough for him to be satisfied with the decision. He drags his fingers along Martin’s wrist; he feels the way Martin shivers at his touch. Then it seems to dawn on Martin that he ought to kiss back. Jon takes in the details of the moment as though scrutinizing a statement. Unlike a statement, however, he doesn’t find Martin wanting. All of the pertinent details are just there, in front of him.

Martin’s lips are extraordinarily soft. Martin tastes like the tea he’s been drinking, sweeter than Jon takes his. Martin is taller than he is, which he’s always known, but never had much cause to think about.

Jon pulls away, and Martin’s ears are burning red as his face. He tucks that piece of information into the back of his mind for later review.

“That,” Martin says, sounding  a little bit stunned, “that was…”

“Good?” Jon suggests.

“Unexpected?” Martin says, and looks mortified. “But also good! Very, very, ah…can we give it another go?”

Amusement washes over him. “Do you want to give it another go?”

“If you’re just humoring me, I’m going to be very put out,” Martin says.

And then Martin kisses him. Tilts Jon’s face up for a better angle, and kisses him, and the first word that comes to mind is ‘lovely’. Martin’s thumb runs along his cheekbone. Jon knows there are scars along that path; he doesn’t really mind that Martin is touching them. He curls his fingers over the back of Martin’s neck, and the Magnus Institute—the Archives—his office—just a foot away from where worms came spilling through the wall—there’s nothing romantic about where they are, but it feels like it can’t have happened anywhere else.

“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Jon says, and Martin keeps on smiling at him. It’s a stupid smile, a dopey, giddy smile, a smile Jon put there, difficult as that is to believe; he doesn’t remember anybody smiling at him that way in the past. He doesn’t deserve to be smiled at that way now. He feels hopelessly lost. He’s felt lost every day recently, but this is different. “Do you suppose we should go to dinner?”

Martin’s face lights up. “I would love to. Oh, but maybe breakfast?” He’s blushing again, blood creeping its way into his ears, and Jon has the niggling sense that Martin’s not going to be the best at keeping this entire thing subtle, but he doesn’t mind as much as he thinks he should. “Sorry, does that make me sound too impatient? Only with the time, and I have fancied you for a _while_ now, so I actually feel like I’ve been incredibly patient already?”

Jon laughs. He finds Martin’s hand, finds that it’s shaking a little.

Martin says, “So that’s a yes, then.”


	4. Like a lovestruck teenager

They do go for breakfast. It’s early enough—hardly after five, how is it possible for all of this to be happening so quickly?—that it takes a fair bit of searching, wandering the streets of Chelsea instead of looking something up, but eventually they find a cozy little restaurant that’s both open and clean, and the staff are even smiling, so Martin supposes they’ve each had a dozen cups of coffee already. There are a few other customers, an elderly woman with enormous spectacles, a man in a nice suit with a week of scruff and dark circles under his eyes, and a pair of university students, the table between them so crowded with textbooks they’ve nowhere for plates.

The hostess leads them to a booth beside a window that looks out over a small but well-tended garden, and says, “I’ll leave you to it then.”

Martin pages through the menu without actually ingesting any of its words. He’s sat across from Jon, whose brow is knit with concentration, like he’s expecting some supernatural manifestation, like maybe the menu will have a bookplate indicating “From the Library of Jurgen Leitner,” like he’s looking for something he can ask Martin to follow up on later.

It hasn’t completely settled in him, he thinks, that he’s on a date with Jon. His teeth worry at his bottom lip, and he thinks about the way Jon kissed him, methodical and matter-of-fact as he does anything, but also assured, no hesitance; and he thinks about the way he kissed Jon, and hopes he wasn’t too clumsy about it, wasn’t too obvious that it had been a long time since his last kiss.

Jon says, without looking up, “When were you last with somebody, Martin?”

Martin wonders if Jon’s suddenly become able to read his mind. He hopes not. The archivist will either think he’s completely hopeless (assuming he doesn’t think so already), or he’ll think Martin’s mind is as filthy as Tim’s (and that’s not even possible, but of _course_ he’s thought about getting Jon’s clothes off); or he’ll think both of those things, and Martin will never be able to look him in the eye again if that’s the case.

He stutters a, “Oh, it um—it’s been kind of a long time, I guess? I haven’t really been interested in anybody except for—” His mouth clamps shut and he sees Jon smiling, obviously trying not to, and he looks back at his menu and focuses on the wide array of omelets he can choose from.

“Martin,” Jon says. Martin has lost track of how many times Jon has said his name in the last hour or so, but he sort of hopes he keeps saying it. He likes the way it sounds in Jon’s mouth. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Martin says, and it comes out softer than he means, so it actually sounds like he’s not fine, but he is, he’s better than fine, he’s _fantastic_ , and he wishes he didn’t sound so nervous, wishes it all the time, but especially right now. He wants to sound fine. He wants to sound fantastic. His fingers tighten on the menu. “It’s just that I’ve fancied you for such a long time and I didn’t really think—do you actually _like_ me, Jon?”

Jon lays his menu flat on the table and looks at Martin. He’s silent for long moments. For so long that a waitress comes ‘round and asks if they’re ready, and Martin rattles off an order for tea and an omelet without much on it, and Jon says he’ll have the same, and then the waitress is gone again and it’s quiet, it’s just _quiet_ , and Martin opens his mouth without having gotten as far as what he’s going to say, his mind gone somewhat erratic.

“You keep saying I don’t like you,” Jon says, slow, thoughtful, considering him, and again Martin has the sense that Jon can see somewhere beneath his skin. “I’ve been unfair to you, haven’t I? I should apologize for that.” He leans forward, his elbows on the table, and says, very simply, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to make up for being a rubbish boss, I’m afraid.”

Martin blinks. He wants to say something clever, and almost wishes he were a little more like Tim, suave and charismatic and always with the perfect thing to say to a prospective date. Not that what Tim does qualifies as dating, so much. And Martin’s not just trying to sweet talk Jon into bed. (He’s not _not_ trying to sweet talk Jon into bed. But mostly he’d like to make it through breakfast, and then through the work day, and then…then he’ll see.) Anyway, he’s neither suave nor charismatic. He’s just Martin, a bit bumbling and a bit clumsy, and what he says is, “You could pay for breakfast.”

Jon looks away, and Martin thinks he’s said the wrong thing, which figures, except then he realizes Jon is trying not to laugh.

“Or I could pay for breakfast,” he offers. “I think the kissing was a pretty good start as well. Makes for a more positive work environment and all. But I’d rather you don’t do the same thing with Tim and Sasha? Might be a little awkward, and I think I could be the jealous type, not that I’ve ever had the opportunity to check for sure.”

Jon is shaking his head, and he’s smiling, and Martin’s stomach flutters. He’s always liked Jon’s smile, difficult as it is to come by, and the scars haven’t changed his mind. “No,” he says, “I think I can afford breakfast. I might even be able to cover dinner.”

Martin beams at him. He can’t help it. There’s a part of him that says he’s acting like a lovestruck teenager, and honestly that part might be right, but he didn’t have much cause to act like a lovestruck teenager when he was the appropriate age, so if it’s coming on a decade late…well, he doesn’t care.

Their food arrives, and they talk about ordinary things while they eat, not a word from either of them about flesh worms or labyrinths of tunnels or corpses or cursed books or monsters. Jon has a drink of his tea and raises his eyebrow at it, and says, “I prefer when you make it,” and Martin denies that there’s anything special about his, except that he knows what Jon likes and he makes sure it’s always on hand at the Institute, and it’s _nice_ , all of this is nice.

They linger long enough that London comes to life outside, morning traffic arriving and more customers filling in the tables around theirs. The old woman and the man in the suit and the university students depart, and Martin and Jon are still there. Eventually though, Jon checks his watch and says, “We’d best be getting back to work.”

Jon pays for breakfast. Martin reaches for his hand.

A few streets from the Magnus Institute, Jon squeezes, and Martin stops and says, “Do you think we should—I don’t know, stagger our arrivals?” and Jon looks surprised. “I don’t terribly mind anybody knowing, but it’s probably more professional if they don’t, right?”

“Yes,” Jon agrees, and he leans up, and they’re kissing again and Martin has to stop himself making a disappointed sound when Jon pulls away. They can’t stand here all day. Jon turns and walks toward the Institute at a brisk pace.

Martin loiters around for a few minutes, messing with his phone, until he thinks it’s just this side of long enough. The Institute isn’t empty at this hour. He returns to the Archives; Sasha is at her desk, and Tim is rifling through a stack of paperwork on his desk, and they both look up when he walks in.

“You look too cheerful for Monday morning,” Tim says. “Did our Martin take somebody home last night?”

Martin only smiles and says, “Better.”


	5. Any sense at all

Of the many and varied secrets sequestered within the halls of the Magnus Institute, Jon is certain that he and Martin now share the most harmless.

The next time something goes horribly wrong, it’s not going to be the result of Martin standing closer to Jon than usual while he points out a few particulars that need checking up on in his next batch of statements, leaning closer than is, strictly speaking, necessary.

The next statement monster that comes to call isn’t going to stalk their building due to Martin almost touching Jon’s face when the door to his office is wide open; Martin catches himself, and Sasha and Tim are out of sight.

The next catastrophe waiting in the dark with a nasty smile and rows of too-large teeth isn’t going to strike because Martin has come up with an excuse to step into Jon’s office every ten minutes, approximately.

The way things are going, the entire Institute is going to know within days that the Head Archivist is getting over-friendly with one of his Archival Assistants; the thought is, surprisingly, not an upsetting one. Except the professional misconduct might get Martin transferred out of the Archive, back to research maybe, and while Jon would have taken that as a welcome reprieve when Martin was foisted upon him…well, he likes the thought significantly less now. He wants Martin where he can see him. He wants _all_ of his assistants where he can see them. But especially Martin.

The twelfth—or is it the thirteenth?—time that Martin raps on his door before opening it, Tim calls, “Coddling the boss isn’t going to get you a better review, Martin,” after him.

“He’s right.” Jon waits for the door to close again. “Martin, do you think if we go more than ten minutes without eye contact I’m going to forget that I enjoy kissing you?”

“Oh.” Martin hugs the book he’s carrying closer to his chest. “No, I don’t—d’you want me to keep out for a while?”

Jon looks him over. “Your ears are going to give us away,” he says blandly.

Saying so only serves to turn Martin’s entire face scarlet. Again. Jon smothers a smile and gestures for him to sit down. “What have you got for me now?”

Martin holds the book out: a well-worn text on the architectural trends of London in the 1800s. It’s the sort of reading that wouldn’t see much use housed anywhere else, but a bookmark sticks up from the middle of this copy. “There’s a bit in here on Robert Smirke. It’s not a lot—”

“It never is,” Jon says.

“Right.” Martin opens up to the bookmark. “But it does have a few letters from other architects, and some of them mention rumors that Smirke might have started dabbling in the occult? It’s nothing concrete, obviously, I think only a few sentences, and I don’t know if it’ll be useful, but Tim was reading it and I thought you’d want to see.”

“You thought it was a good excuse to wander in again,” Jon says, but takes the proffered book and skims the page.

“Just because we…” Martin huffs. “I _am_ still doing my job, Jon.”

Jon laughs, and Martin stalks out of the office grumbling about thankless work. It’s not even thirty minutes before he’s back, this time with a tea tray. Jon times it. He doesn’t really recognize the warmth that rises in his chest as Martin approaches the desk with a defiant lift to his chin, like he’s daring Jon to remark on his reappearance.

“Yes, Martin?” is all he says. But it’s a more deliberate choice than it might sound at first glance. Or first listen, as it were. Jon hasn’t missed how Martin responds to it, though it’s a small thing, just a parting of his lips. To any other eye, it would look like Martin is only taking in an unconscious breath; Jon’s eyes are better than most others, and he sees it for the reaction it is. He likes the reaction that it is.

Martin sets the tray on the square patch of desk that Jon has intentionally kept clear for this exact reason. “I want to kiss you,” he says placidly, “and I’m not going to, because we’re at work? Properly at work, not like this morning. But I wanted to give you something to think about. Enjoy the tea.”

It’s the last Jon sees of him. He’s actually rather impressed; he expects Martin to scurry back in after an hour at the most, but there’s no sign of him. More than that, he’s impressed, despite himself, by what Martin’s done. Even without seeing him, Jon catches himself reading the same words a dozen times, realizing he hasn’t taken in a single one of them, because his thoughts have wandered their way to Martin’s mouth. To the shape of his lips and the softness of them, the way they fit against his own.

The third time this happens, Jon sets aside the copy of the statement he’s supposed to have been poking holes in—and laughs. His predecessor is dead, murdered, and her corpse sat undisturbed, rotting for months in black tunnels that run right beneath his desk; he should be investigating, or at least planning his next move, and instead he’s distracted by mouths. By one particular mouth.

It’s ridiculous. So it does fit right in with the rest of his life in that regard.

Jon stays at his desk, hands folded together atop the statement he’s given up on, until Martin comes to collect him. There’s already the barest hint of pink coloring his cheeks, but his voice is steady. “Did you still want to have dinner? With me?”

“I don’t think the clarification was necessary,” Jon says, and rises from his chair.

There’s a whispering in the back of his head as he flips the light switch, as he leaves the Archive at Martin’s side, as they make their way through the familiar halls and out into the cooling London evening. It tells him that he’s not being fair to Martin, suspecting him of murder and taking him out to dinner in the same day, without any plans to stop doing the first. It tells him that he should—if he had any sense at all—put an end to this before either of them can fall deeper into it. But if he had any sense at all, he wouldn’t have returned to his post after Prentiss, after Gertrude.

He hasn’t got any sense, and so he waits until they’re several blocks from the Magnus Institute, and says, “I seem to recall you gave me something to think about a few hours ago.”

The sun hasn’t completely gone down, and still provides light enough for him to see the blood spreading through Martin’s face. Each time he looks at Martin, there’s another detail to notice, some new facet of his being that Jon has missed in the previous looks. Now he takes in a collection of freckles that dot Martin’s nose, spread out just enough that calling them a ‘cluster’ feels inaccurate. They’re more like a constellation. He says, “Well?”

Martin kisses him, and his hands catch both of Jon’s down at their sides. Jon doesn’t intend to sigh against Martin’s mouth; the sound comes out of him anyway. He likes the way Martin’s thumb draws circles on his palm. He likes the way Martin’s head tilts, ever so slight, for a better angle. He likes the way Martin feels pressed up against him. He likes the way Martin says, “I think I’m getting better at this?” after he pulls away.

“You weren’t bad at it the first time,” Jon says, and appreciates the angles of Martin’s face and how Martin beams at him. He thinks that Martin might be able to make him feel loved, given the chance, whether he likes it or not. The whispering in his head says he probably can’t do the same. It says that Martin _deserves_ the same; he doesn’t actually need it to tell him that. Martin deserves a normal life, outside of the Archives, and a normal boyfriend (is that what he is?), and maybe Martin hasn’t chosen the Archives, but he has chosen Jon, who hasn’t done a thing to earn him.

Jon touches a kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth. “Shall we?”


	6. Worth improving for

For Martin, the day is something of a blur after he leaves Jon’s office.

He can’t believe he did that, actually did that, _actually_ walked into Jon’s office and just—he has the panicked thought, again and again and again, that Jon probably hated that and Jon’s not going to want to go out with him after all and it hasn’t even been a day and he’s already mucked it up and—

“Whoa, whoa,” Tim says when he catches Martin with his grip so tight on a tea cup that his hands are going white. Tim extricates the cup from Martin’s vice-grip and pats his shoulder. “Easy there, mate. The tea cup is innocent. Or maybe it’s not. Guess you never know around here. My point is, you’re going to break it and make a mess and Jon’ll have a conniption.”

It’s among the less helpful things he might have said.

“Are you all right?” Sasha looks at Martin, forehead creased. “You look ill. Maybe you should go home for the day.”

“No,” Martin says, too quickly. He stands and mumbles something about the library before reclaiming his cup and escaping. In the hall, he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He reminds himself that Jon likes him. Jon wants to take him to dinner. Jon isn’t going to change his mind because Martin did something a bit bold. He spends an hour sifting through library shelves, wasting his own time, before returning to the Archive, where Tim cocks an eyebrow at him, but says nothing.

This is how his day’s passed by.

Now Martin is walking through Chelsea with Jon’s hand held loosely in his own, keeping an eye out for anything that looks appetizing. Or any errant coworkers. If they were to run into Tim...he’d never let it go. The sheer amount of workplace innuendo would be—well, best avoided.

“Do you have anything in mind?” Jon asks, and Martin shakes his head. Most of Chelsea is too rich for his blood.

The restaurant they eventually walk into feels much too expensive, but Jon waves away Martin’s protests, and then they’re seated, and Martin is faced with a menu that he can hardly bear to look at. But it’s read the menu or stare at the man he’s spent months pining over, and he doesn’t want to do that, either. He doesn’t want to be _caught_ doing that. Jon’s easy to watch at work, regularly too absorbed in the task at hand to notice Martin’s eyes lingering, but there’s not really a task at hand just now.

Martin orders a water and does his best not to fidget. His eyes flick from the menu to Jon’s face and back again. As much time as he’s spent thinking about being out with Jon, he doesn’t know what to say. He hasn’t usually gotten this far in his daydreams. But this is their _second_ date. There won’t be many more of them if he spends it too tongue-tied and skittish to actually talk.

Jon says, “You’re blushing again.”

“I can’t help it,” Martin mumbles. “You’re here.”

Oh. That’s mortifying. That just came _out of his mouth_.

“I mean,” he starts, and gives up immediately, because there’s absolutely no coming back from that. He’s not going to waste time trying. “We sort of had this conversation this morning? And I think I’m better at the kissing than I am the talking. I don’t want to ruin this.”

Jon’s mouth quirks, and Martin wonders what’s going on in his head. Sometimes there’s this look in Jon’s eyes, like he’s thinking very hard about something, and that look is there now. Their waiter chooses that moment to return. Martin hurries to choose the cheapest item on the page, which is still easily twice what he’s comfortable having spent on him. He wants the waiter to _go_. It seems like the man is taking his time, though he’s not; Martin’s perception is all off.

“You’re not going to ruin this,” Jon says when the waiter’s gone. He’s leaning forward, his full attention on Martin in a way that makes him feel pinned in place like a butterfly in an entomologist’s lab, and Martin cannot look away from him. “I might. I’ve never been terribly good at relationships, but I intend to try. You’re worth improving for.”

Martin knows, on an intellectual level, that Jon’s said that to help. It serves mostly to throw his brain into chaos. Jon’s looking at him, and he’s got to say something, and it ought to be something romantic, and every scrap of love poetry he’s ever read has fled his memory, and he says, “Are we in a relationship?”

Jon’s brow furrows. “Right. That was presumptuous of me.”

“No!” Martin’s palms land hard on the table, nearly knocking over his water, and Jon looks almost alarmed. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean we haven’t talked about it. This. Us.” It’s no wonder he’s a rubbish poet. He can’t even put together a proper sentence. Not that it helps when Jon’s focused on him that way. Martin’s never seen him look at anything in quite the same way; he almost wants to call it hunger, but he’s sure that can’t be right. He repeats, “We haven’t talked about us.”

“All right,” Jon says, his voice even, like he’s not personally responsible for the obscene behavior of Martin’s heart, and that’s not fair at all. “Let’s talk about us.” He pauses. Martin’s breathing does the same. “I’d like for you to be my boyfriend. If that’s something you want.”

The smile Jon gives him is awkward at best, and Martin considers throwing himself across the table for a kiss. He settles for saying, “Yes, _obviously_ yes, Jon, I just wanted to make sure you—you know what, never mind, it’s just yes.” He’ll save the kissing for later. He’d like to do quite a lot of it. Definitely more than is considered publicly decent.

“That’s settled then,” Jon says. There’s nothing romantic about it in the least, but Martin can’t imagine much better. “Tell me about your poetry.”

This takes Martin aback. “What?”

“You write poetry.” Jon takes a sip of his drink.

“Well, yes,” Martin says, sure his cheeks are burning again. They’ve done little else today. “It’s, um, not actually very good? But it’s something I like to do.” Jon nods, and that focus is still there, and Martin’s always wanted Jon’s full attention, and he’s got it now, and he hardly knows how to handle it. “I just sort of write about my life. Things I notice.” You, he doesn’t say aloud, because his brain-to-mouth filter hasn’t _completely_ abandoned him. Still, the way Jon smiles at him makes him suspect that he knows and is being kind enough not to say. “I wrote a lot when I moved into the Archive. It was therapeutic, you know? After Prentiss kept me trapped in my flat I—”

“Christ, I should have checked on you.” Jon’s voice is tight, and so low Martin almost misses it. Then the words sink in.

“It’s okay,” Martin says. “You couldn’t have known—I mean, she made you think I was just sick, it’s not your fault. Besides, if you’d come to check up she might have…I wouldn’t have wanted her to hurt you. I managed all right. I didn’t die, anyway.”

“Even if you had only been sick,” Jon says, and then seems at a loss for words. “It was nearly two weeks.”

Martin wants to kiss him again; to convince him it’s really all right, he doesn’t blame him a bit. “I’m fine. We’re both fine. That’s what matters.”

“Yes, you’re right.” It’s agreement, unsteady as it may be. “But I am sorry.”

“I’m sorry I left you in the tunnels,” Martin says.

“You thought we were with you,” Jon says, and Martin knows he wasn’t nearly that kind at the time. Tim told him so.

“And you thought I was sick.” Martin smiles. It takes a minute, but Jon smiles back.

They talk a bit about work, and a bit more about Martin’s poetry, and about possibly visiting the British Museum sometime soon, and about spending afternoons in the park until the weather turns, and Martin relaxes into it, eventually. Jon refuses to let him lay eyes on the bill, and takes his hand before they’ve left the restaurant, and the butterflies dance about his stomach again.

“It’s been such a nice night,” he says, “I don’t want it to be over yet.”

Jon says, “Then it doesn’t have to be.”


	7. Except, of course

In the end, Jon finds himself standing in the living room of Martin’s flat.

As it turns out, neither Martin nor himself have any specific thoughts on what to do or where to go after dinner; this, surprisingly, is integral to their night not being over. For a little while they walk around Chelsea, idly debating what they ought to do next, and then Jon looks sidelong at Martin, at the smile settled onto his face, and says, “Do you want to go back to yours?”

Martin’s eyes widen. He must have said the wrong thing. He usually does. The way things ended with Georgie was proof enough of that. (Except, of course, he hadn’t thought that his own fault at the time.) But this is Martin, and he really does intend—or hope—to do better. There’s a chill coming into the air. They’re also still walking, though Jon couldn’t say where they’re going. Martin has yet to respond; he looks thoroughly tongue-tied, and Jon is something awful at rescues, but this one he thinks he can manage.

He says, “It was only a suggestion. Maybe there’s a film showing.” He doesn’t particularly care for going to films. He just wants Martin to find his way back to the English language, and a more mundane suggestion seems as good an attempt as any.

“No.” Martin shivers under a sudden gust of wind. He steps closer to Jon, who’s grown busy taking in the way his hair blows about. “We can go back to mine. I just…” He trails off.

“Didn’t expect me to ask?” Jon offers.

“Right,” Martin says. Jon likes the look on his face, which is certainly still a smile, but it’s changed in a way he can’t match to words. “But let’s do that, yeah.”

And then there they are, in a flat that smells strongly of the ocean, and also of tea, Martin fumbling to get the lights turned on. Jon has never been to Martin’s flat, nor thought about being in Martin’s flat, and his first thoughts in the dark are about Martin being trapped here without power, in the dark, just like this, for thirteen days. His stomach turns. (Except, of course, it hadn’t done then.) _Bloody relief if you ask me._ That’s what he’d said while Martin was here, stuffing fabric under the door to stop Prentiss’ worms getting in. _Bloody damn relief._ He’s not going to apologize again—largely because he thinks Martin might actually shout at him—but he does find Martin’s hand and squeeze. “You’re braver than you think you are.”

Martin says, “I’m not, really, but I’d like to be,” and then he finds the lights. “I’m sorry for the mess.”

The living room really is a mess. There are half-full boxes everywhere, and belongings strewn about that look as though they were meant to land inside of them and Martin couldn’t be bothered to stop and make up for his abysmal aim. Jon says, “Are you going somewhere?”

“Trying to.” Martin makes a half-hearted attempt to clear up some of his clutter, dropping a book into one box and a pair of shoes into another. “I’ve been looking for a new place. I can’t sleep here. It’s sort of…too much.”

Jon nods understanding. There’s a reason—multiple reasons, more likely—that they were both in the Archive this morning. He doesn’t need Martin to explain himself. A decision settles into him. “I’ll help you pack.”

Martin laughs, and it relaxes Jon a bit, more than he would expect. “You don’t have to do that. You’re my guest, you’re my—we can do what you like.”

“I invited myself over,” Jon says briskly, walking toward the couch, where there’s a line of boxes, some with nothing in them, “and I want to help you pack. You shouldn’t have to stay somewhere that you’re afraid of.” He doesn’t miss the irony of this; he’s afraid of the Archive, and he knows Martin is, and leaving…well. The Archive might have them caught, but this flat is a much more manageable foe. With the Archive they’re rather out of their depth; this much, he knows they can do something about. “Tell me where to start.”

“Oh, all right, if you’re sure,” Martin says. He directs Jon around the living room; poorly thrown items find their way into boxes, and boxes find their way off of the couch. Jon fills one of them with composition books full of poetry; Martin looks mortified when he opens one of them, so he closes it again, having only read a few lines. He doesn’t _think_ those lines were about him, though his eyes are the right color.

They spend an hour this way, working in a near-silence more comfortable than Jon might have imagined; the room looks much better when they’ve finished with it. Jon gazes over their progress with a growing sense of satisfaction. Something has been done. It’s not a lot, but it is something. Compared to how much nothing he’s achieved lately, it feels immense. He turns to Martin, who’s standing several feet away with his hand atop a box, and says, “What’s next?”

Martin, staring down at the box as though it might have answers to as yet unasked questions, looks up. He says, “God, Jon,” and he laughs, and he crosses the room and Jon expects the kiss, but somehow it still strikes him as a surprise. There have been plenty of kisses today, quite a few more than Jon has previously begun a relationship with; this one is…not harder, not wetter, not deeper, and somehow it is more. It is, he thinks through a haze, more of Martin.

“You’re welcome, I suppose,” Jon says after, with his cheek to Martin’s chest; he likes the thundering heartbeat behind his ribcage. “I’m assuming that was a thank you.”

Martin laughs again—snorts, more accurately—and wraps an arm around Jon’s back. He’s careful about it, seemingly unsure of whether or not he’s allowed. Jon, for all his misgivings about trusting his associates, relaxes into it. There’s some amount of trust in being here at all. It can’t have been _Martin_ , of all people. (Except, of course, it could have been.) Martin is _safe_. (Except, of course, Jon can’t be certain.) Martin is now his boyfriend. (Except, of course, one does not preclude the other.) Martin is speaking, and he should probably be listening. “—d’you want to stay over? I don’t mean—” Jon leans back to see Martin’s face, currently and unsurprisingly gone scarlet, and tries not to look amused. “—we don’t have to—I just thought maybe it’ll be easier to get some sleep if you’re not alone? But maybe that’s too much, yes, I’m sure it’s too much, I—I’m going to go and fix us some tea.”

He scurries away before Jon can respond.

 _If tea solved as many problems as Martin would like,_ Jon muses. He follows the sound of cupboards and drawers to a somewhat claustrophobic kitchen, by far neater than the living room; there’s not really the space for any kind of mess. Martin is at the stove, muttering to himself too quietly for Jon to hear, but he catches “damn” and he catches “stupid”; he leans on the nearest wall and says, “Will your bed fit two, or were you offering me your couch and a duvet?”

Martin stares at him.

“That was a joke,” he says. “If you’re not sure. I’d like to stay.”

“Okay,” Martin says, and the high, happy note in his voice is another thing Jon cannot match to words. “Good, that’s good.”

The bed, when it comes to it, is on the small side, but it fits two, barely. Martin lends Jon a pair of gingham pyjamas, and Jon folds his own clothes to leave on a chair. He hopes nobody makes the observation he’s just worn them; Tim and Sasha are both perceptive enough.

Jon hasn’t shared a bed with another person in—to put it lightly—a long time. He isn’t sure that he remembers how to do so, but supposes, as he slides beneath the sheet, it’s one of those things that must come back to you. It’s still early, the alarm clock says, but the hour has little meaning when neither of them have gotten adequate sleep in days, weeks, possibly months. Probably months. Good lord.

Martin turns the light off, and it is dark enough to sleep, and that is what matters. Neither of them says “good night”; there’s only the sound of their breathing. They lay in the dark, Jon on one side of the bed and Martin on the other; it comes as a surprise that there is room for them not to touch each other.

Martin breaks the silence. “D’you want to come here?”

Jon doesn’t know the right words to answer that, so he forgoes them entirely. There’s not far for him to go, just the spare few inches between them. It takes them a bit of maneuvering to find a satisfactory position, and then he is, simply put, cuddling with Martin. With his head tucked under Martin’s chin, he says, “Martin.”

“Hm?”

“You’re—the scars don’t put you off?” It’s not really the most important question, but he can’t ask that one without rather ruining the moment. This one has the same potential; it’s equally likely to tell him something he’d rather not hear, though its scale is a less catastrophic one. (Except, of course, that depends on where you’re standing.)

Martin is quiet for a long time. Jon wishes he hadn’t asked. He should have just gone to sleep. When Martin eventually answers, Jon can hear him frowning. “The scars don’t mean anything to me, except that you survived. I’d have you with more of them s’long as it meant you were _alive_.”

Jon wants to kiss him; instead he does his best to wrap more tightly around him, and says nothing, and closes his eyes, and listens to Martin’s mumbled, “I think you’re gorgeous,” and thinks that he doesn’t deserve any of this. Martin holds him closer, and Jon thinks, too, that Martin understands his quiet.

It’s the most restful sleep Jon has had since the corpse in the tunnels, and perhaps he is sleeping with a murderer.

(Except, of course, it makes little difference.)


	8. It would be easier

A week passes, and then another.

Jon spends most of those nights at Martin’s flat. It happens without either of them mentioning it; they leave the Institute together, after Tim and Sasha have gone, and it doesn’t occur to Jon that he has a flat of his own until they’re climbing the stairs, Martin sneaking looks at him that are the offspring of surprise and giddiness. He goes home once, twice, three times, as Martin’s clothes don’t fit him, but those are the nights he finds himself in the Archive, thinking about the tunnels and Gertrude and blood-soaked desks. Those are the mornings that Martin comes in and takes one look at him before turning around to make tea, delivering it with a kiss to Jon’s temple. Jon finds that he prefers waking with his face in Martin’s chest.

They have dinner—they _cook_ dinner together, and Jon’s never liked cooking, finds it a waste of time, but he likes the fierce concentration on Martin’s face when he’s reading a recipe. They fix pasta one Friday, Martin standing over the stove with a wooden spoon in one hand. A bit of sauce finds its way onto the corner of his mouth, and Jon wonders, idly at first and then in a more burning way, what Martin would do if he were to lick it off. It occurs to him that the answer is readily available.

“Martin,” he says, and Martin looks at him; he leans in, swipes his tongue over Martin’s skin. Martin makes a sound that Jon would like to hear again, and Jon kisses him, allows himself to be crowded back toward the kitchen table, which isn’t sturdy enough for this, creaks protest and threat beneath Jon, who should care that it might give out with him on top of it, but doesn’t. They kiss until the water boils over. Martin jumps back, his face written over with shock, like he can’t believe he just did that, and scurries to the stove, and Jon is two parts satisfied, curiosity and something he can’t put a name to.

Jon spends the afternoon following reading on the couch while Martin is out looking at a potential flat; Martin returns with complaints about the landlord and takeaway from an Indian restaurant Jon mentioned once, offhand, months ago.

Martin sits against him on the couch, craning his neck to watch the way Jon forms his letters while filling in a crossword puzzle. Martin puts on music while a storm rages outside; they sit beneath a blanket, and Jon reads aloud from a book of poetry he found on a shelf, strains of piano and cracks of thunder in the background. Within a few days they’ve settled into a morning routine, taking it in turns to use the bathroom, working around each other in the kitchen. It’s sickeningly domestic.

They spend a considerable amount of time kissing. Not just on the table: under afternoon sunlight in Hyde Park; up against the front door, the doorknob digging into Jon’s back in a way that will bother him later, when his fingers aren’t tangled in Martin’s hair and Martin’s hands aren’t undoing the buttons of his shirt; on the couch, where Martin sucks a breathtakingly obvious mark onto Jon’s throat, forcing him into several days of turtlenecks; in bed, desperate sounds spilling loose from Martin’s lips when Jon twists his wrist just the right way, until Martin himself spills into Jon’s hand, and there’s that curiosity again, _what does Martin taste like_ , niggling until the moment it becomes insistent, which is when Jon licks his own palm, and it’s salty, bitter. Martin kisses him hard for that; he says, “Martin,” and he says, “please,” and he comes with Martin’s breath in his ear. He falls asleep that way, too.

Martin offers him a drawer, which he turns down, arguing that, “There’s no point when you’re moving soon,” though Martin has yet to make much headway in finding a new place to live. It’s senseless to refuse, as his shirts are already rotating their way through Martin’s closet and his shoes have an impermanently permanent home beside the door and he knows where Martin keeps the spare light bulbs. But there’s a stubbornly insistent part of him that says accepting a drawer is one step too far.

Jon hasn’t had Martin over to his own flat. He’s thought about it, come close to inviting him over—had the fleeting thought, while Martin bent over a notepad, upper lip caught in his teeth and hair falling into his eyes and more concentration on his face than a grocery list really warranted, that he might offer something completely out of the question. Each time he opens his mouth with an invitation on his tongue, his stomach clenches and the part of him that is paranoia, the part that seems to come into its own more with each passing day, that part whispers, _It could have been._

He knows it’s absurd. He knows _he_ _’s_ being absurd. If Martin were any part a killer, he’s had ample opportunity to put a knife through Jon’s back, turned and unguarded. It would be more sensible to confide in him. To tell Martin his fears and his suspicions. He should let Martin _help_ , or he should call this off; but he won’t call it off. That’s another thing he knows.

Jon doesn’t want to hurt Martin. He has the sense it’s inevitable. He has the sense Martin will let him.

It would be easier to end this if Martin didn’t look at him in wide-eyed surprise after every kiss, like he still expects to wake and find that this has all been a dream. It would be easier if Martin didn’t make his heart speed up like it’s involved in a poor action film. It would be easier if Martin didn’t make him feel so—good lord, is he happy? The sensation is so foreign as to be almost unrecognizable.

But it’s easier to sleep with his head tucked up under Martin’s chin in the too-small bed.

Now, Jon leaves his office, intent on locating the follow-up information for Jennifer Ling’s statement, which has vanished from his desk, so he can set about recording. Martin is at his own desk, laughing while Tim hovers beside him with his cell phone out.

“Come on, Martin,” Tim is saying, and Jon just watches, half-mesmerized by the way Martin’s eyes light up when he laughs. It makes him want to stride across the room and kiss him; but their coworkers are unaware, and he intends to keep it that way for a good long while. _If they did know, it would still be highly inappropriate,_ he reminds himself.

“I’m all right, Tim!” Martin says, a hint of exasperation to it, laced through with humor.

“You’ll like her!” Tim insists. Jon catches the thread of the conversation. “Look, Alicia’s into poetry, she names all the spiders she sees in her flat, and she’s pretty. And she likes the whole nerdy bookseller thing you’ve got going on.”

 _Nerdy bookseller thing._ Jon’s eyebrows lift.

Martin shakes his head. “I’m sure she’s lovely, but I’m not interested.” Jon clears his throat, and Martin’s eyes are on him immediately; the smile is the relieved sort. Perhaps a bit eager. “Jon! Did you need something?”

“Assistants who do their jobs,” Jon says dryly. “I see we’re spending our time productively today.”

Tim waves this off and crosses the room to show Jon his phone. There’s a picture, a woman with dark hair and a nice smile, standing in a copse of trees. “Martin needs to get out more. Don’t you think he should at least give it a shot? When d’you think he last had a date?”

“I think Martin’s personal life is nobody’s business but his own,” Jon says, wondering if last night qualifies as a date, Martin’s lips shaping sonnets on Jon’s wrists, in which case Martin’s last date was _quite_ recent indeed. “Does one of you have the file from case 0131103?”

“I do.” Sasha rises from her desk, brushing nothing off of her skirt before bringing him one of the several case file boxes clustered at her work station. She smiles at him, tucks strands of her hair behind her ear. “I added a few more notes for you.”

“Thank you.” Jon eyes her, wary; he’s always wary now. He says, “Tim, leave Martin alone. I’m sure you have something more important to do. I can find something for you, if not.”

Tim scoffs, but returns to his desk, and Jon to his office, nudging the door shut behind him.

It’s not until later, after Jon’s finished recording Ms. Ling’s statement—an unfortunate, violent case, one that makes him glad the additional materials don’t include any cell phone recordings—that Martin lets himself into the office, a familiar smile on his face, one that might have needled Jon before, one that he’s come to like. He’s also got tea. Some things remain unchanged. “You rescued me earlier.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I don’t want to know what brought that on.”

“Tim being Tim. So.” Martin sets his tea in front of him, a gleam in his eye. “Just to be clear, you don’t think I should agree to meet Tim’s friend for a drink?”

It feels like someone’s clenching down on Jon’s stomach. Seconds later, he places the sensation: possessiveness. He doesn’t take time to examine the feeling; he yanks Martin into a kiss, not caring that they’re at work, that Tim and Sasha may well be in the other room. It’s a short kiss, but one that leaves Martin’s breath shaking; Jon’s worked out how to do that, and there’s a smugness that accompanies, every time he does. “No,” he says, his own voice perfectly composed, “I don’t think so.”

Martin collects himself and laughs; it would be easier if his laugh wasn’t so nice. “I’m leaving for the day.” Jon glances at the clock, realizing only then that most of the day is gone, that it’s after five. “I was thinking about ordering Chinese. Are you staying much longer?”

“Not much,” Jon says. There are a few last items for him to tick off before he leaves. “I’ll see you at—yours.”

They share another kiss, this one chaste; Martin promises him an order of orange chicken, and then Jon is alone in the Archive. He considers the tunnels. He considers Tim’s desk, or Sasha’s, or…

“No,” he says, this time to himself, this time somewhat less composed. He thinks—he knows—he thinks that he knows—Martin did not kill Gertrude Robinson. Tim, or Sasha, or Elias, or someone, anyone else. Not the man he’s just been kissing, who spent fearful months living in the old document storage room. Jon wonders if he left anything behind; the thought pushes its way to the front of his mind before he can lock it away.

If Martin has left anything behind, Jon tells himself as he flicks on the light, he can take it home with him.

There, tucked close to the wall, is a small pile of composition books. Jon pulls them out, and pages through the first. It’s just poetry. He hasn’t yet read any of Martin’s poetry. Each time he mentions doing so, Martin loses color and shakes his head. So he shouldn’t read this poetry either. He takes a seat and the frisson of guilt is not enough to make him close the notebook.

It’s—well. Even at his most generous, Jon cannot bring himself to pretend the poems are anything but awful. He’s readying himself to stop reading, to slide these composition books into his bag and take them home to Martin, to fall into another evening of domesticity, when he turns the page and finds the beginnings of a letter. _I shouldn_ _’t read this,_ he thinks, as it’s addressed to Martin’s mother, and Martin doesn’t talk about his family. This is private.

_But._

This isn’t fair to Martin. Jon knows that, in his head. But it’s not his head doing the talking right now, just as it’s not his head that does the talking when Martin’s giving him that nervous little smile, when Martin’s mouth is on his own, when Martin’s talking to him about museum exhibits he’d like to go to, and would Jon like to go with him? Jon’s head, it seems, has little to offer as of late.

The letter makes no mention of Jane Prentiss, or of Martin moving into the Archive. The letter suggests that Martin lives a perfectly ordinary life. The letter mentions Jon twice—‘my boss,’ it says, and Jon spends a second wondering if there’s a newer letter that refers to ‘my boyfriend’ instead. The letter says that Martin has been lying. Jon reads that sentence again. Three times. Then four, and five, as though the words might change. _But I am worried about the others finding out I_ _’ve been lying._ He suddenly feels cold, almost numb.

But it can’t have been Martin.


	9. A moment of undue stress

Martin’s stomach growls. The smell of Chinese pervades the flat, and has since he walked through the door with it. There’s no escaping it. He’s determined not to eat until Jon’s arrived though, no matter the compelling arguments of his stomach. For the moment he’s settled on the couch, the Chinese boxes out of sight in the kitchen, his feet propped up on a stack of packed away boxes while he works on a poem with half his attention.

It might be a better poem if he gave it his full attention, but he keeps checking the time, teeth worrying at his pen. He’s been home for a while now. The food will go cold—it’s likely working that way already—if Jon doesn’t get here soon. Given Martin told him he’d be picking up dinner, he expected him to leave the Institute on time this evening. He must have gotten caught up with something. The man needs other people to pull him out of his work. Maybe Martin ought to have stayed longer, waited for Jon to leave with him.

He picks his phone off the side table and types, _Are you going to be home soon?_ , and deletes it immediately. This isn’t Jon’s home, it’s hardly his own, though he likes to think—no, never mind that. He tries again. _Are you going to be much longer? I_ _’ve got an emptier couch than I like. Also, dinner._

Several minutes pass, long enough for him to write a line about heartbeats and scratch it out again, before his phone alerts him to a reply. He’d considered setting the tone to something romantic for Jon, but he keeps it on silent most of the time, and he thinks Jon wouldn’t really go in for the idea. (Still, it might be worth it to see if _he_ _’d_ be the one blushing for once.)

_I_ _’m feeling unwell,_ the message reads. _I_ _’m going to spend the night in my own flat. Wouldn’t want to share it with you._

Martin frowns at that. Jon hasn’t seemed sick recently. It can’t be any remaining vestige of Prentiss’s attack, not when they were given the all clear by the ECDC. Maybe he’s caught a bug from somebody at work or on the train. He’d like to protest that Jon ought to come here anyway, where he’ll have Martin to care for him, but he knows better than to push.

_Call me if you need anything. Feel better. Stay home tomorrow if you need to!_ He types another three words after that and deletes those, too. He’s there, has been there since long before Jon took his hand or kissed him, but he doubts that Jon is ready to hear—or read—it, let alone say it back. He replaces them with _Sleep well._

“I love you,” he says aloud after it’s gone, for his own benefit. His heart flutters with it.

The thing of it is—

The Archive has been a tense place to work as of late. It’s always been a bit doom and gloom down there—their line of work isn’t one that lends itself to stories that end well—but they’ve all gotten on well and found the enjoyment in it where they can. Things have been off in the Archive since Prentiss and her attack revealed the tunnels below the Institute.

No, that’s not really it.

Things have been off in the Archive since Martin found Gertrude’s body. That’s the trouble, and he knows it. Martin prefers not to linger on it, the gunshot wounds ripped through her torso. He’s curious, of course he is, but it’s also what appears behind his eyelids on the bad nights, and he doesn’t want it there. But Jon has been more withdrawn since then. Not _so_ much with Martin, but with Tim and Sasha, and they’ve noticed it too. Martin knows without it being said that Jon is afraid the same might happen to him. There’s not much he can do to wipe away that fear except be there; he likes to think that helps, anyway.

But for all the unpleasant developments in their lives recently, Martin is the happiest he’s ever been. It’s the little things: seeing Jon brush his teeth in his bathroom; that Jon’s gotten so comfortable in his bed, pushed up close to him; the way Jon looks at him after a lengthy kiss, his lips still parted on Martin’s name. There’s death and disease and every sort of horror, and Martin’s life is at its highest point.

_I_ _’ll see you tomorrow,_ Jon sends, which is hardly affectionate, but it’s Jon, and Martin doesn’t expect him to be affectionate. Not in words, at least.

Martin has dinner on his own and his stomach settles down quickly. He stows Jon’s orange chicken in the refrigerator with the leftover egg rolls and rice, in case he wants any of it when he’s feeling better. The poem in progress follows him to bed, and he falls asleep on a line about fitting together pieces from different puzzles.

In the morning he finds the notebook on the floor, thrown away from him sometime in the night. He texts Jon before he’s fully rolled out of bed. _Morning :) Are you feeling any better today?_ There hasn’t yet been an answer when he’s leaving his flat, having packed an extra bagel for Jon. Neither has there been an answer when he’s getting on the train, nor by the time he’s disembarking.

It’s probably nothing. Jon often forgets to check his phone, or to charge it at all. Martin has found it dead in his flat on multiple occasions. That’s likely as not the case today. That or Jon is sleeping off whatever bug he’s picked up and hasn’t woken up yet.

Except, Jon is standing at Sasha’s desk when he arrives, focused on the contents of a folder she’s presenting to him. Martin takes a moment to study him and determines that he looks fine. Tired, but fine. There’s nothing for him to have worried over. Then Tim nudges him from behind and says, “I know it can be difficult to cross the threshold, Martin, but you’re holding up the line. If I don’t get in quickly I’ll have to turn right around and go home.”

At this, Jon looks across the room. At Martin. His expression shifts—falters, more like—quickly enough that Martin doubts anybody else would notice, but he knows Jon well, even better now. Something _is_ wrong. He steps aside to let Tim through the door.

“Good morning, Jon,” he says, doubting very much that it’s going to be. “Sasha.”

Jon only nods at both of them.

Martin walks to his desk, trying and failing to ignore the sensation in his chest like something’s reached in and squeezed down on everything it’s found. He doesn’t watch Jon finish his conversation with Sasha, though he does listen. They’re discussing a statement in the final throes of being dismissed and banished into the discredited section, never to be touched again.

It’s not until he hears Jon say his name that he looks up and finds Jon standing in the door to his office, watching him. “A word, Martin.”

It isn’t a request. Martin stands and follows and shuts the door behind them. Jon sits at his desk, but Martin doesn’t move from the door. “Is everything all right?” His heart races. Is ‘a word’ the Jonathan Sims equivalent of ‘we need to talk’? Is he about to be broken up with?

“Have a seat, Martin.” Taking him in again, Jon looks worse than Martin originally thought. There are circles under his eyes, his hair’s uncombed (though that’s not unusual, lately), and his clothes are rumpled. Martin thinks they may be the same ones he wore yesterday. He doesn’t have the heart to argue with Jon when he looks like this, so he shuffles forward and sits.

“Is something the matter?” he asks.

Jon looks at him levelly. “I need you to tell me what you’ve been lying about.”

That’s the last thing Martin expects to hear. Lying? “Sorry,” he says, “what?”

“What have you been lying to me about?” Jon’s eyes don’t leave him. There’s a strain in his face that makes Martin wish he had an answer to give him.

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” Martin says.

Jon picks a piece of paper from the desk and offers it over to him. Martin recognizes his own handwriting at once. It’s an unfinished letter to his mother, one he’d written while living here and never got ‘round to wrapping up for mailing. His stomach clenches. Where did Jon _find_ this? And why’s a letter to his mother got him acting this—oh.

_I_ _’ve been lying._

It’s right there in his own words. He’d put them down in a moment of undue stress; there were a lot of those, and sometimes he thought of quitting, and sometimes he feared losing his job, and sometimes he wrote stupid things in letters to his mother, who probably wouldn’t be writing back to him anyway.

“I want to give you the benefit of the doubt,” Jon says. “I don’t want to believe you had anything to do with…recent discoveries.”

Understanding slides into place with a sickening _pop_. Jon hasn’t withdrawn from Martin before now, but he has been paranoid. Martin’s stomach churns more than clenches and his hands tighten on his knees. His voice is quiet. “It’s my CV.”

“What?” Jon leans back, surprise on his face and in his words.

“I lied on my CV, Jon.” Martin keeps his voice low. He doesn’t want the others to hear this. “I don’t have the qualifications I said I did. My mother was—is—ill and I had to take care of her, so I lied on my applications until I managed to find something, and I found The Magnus Institute. That’s what I’ve been lying about.” He sounds wretched when he says, “Tell me what you thought I was lying about.”

He already knows. But he wants—doesn’t want, really, needs—to hear Jon say it.

Jon looks as though he’d rather not. “Martin.”

Martin shakes his head. “Tell me.”

There’s a pause, and Jon says, “Somebody from the Institute killed Gertrude.”

The confirmation of it is like a blow. His chest goes tight. All his breaths are quick gasps, never enough air in before it’s leaving again in bitten off words. His voice shakes horribly. “You thought I might—you thought I could have—”

“No,” Jon says quickly. He’s out of his chair and coming around the desk, and Martin flinches away when it seems that Jon is going to put a hand on his face. “No, I—ye—I don’t know!”

Martin leans forward so he can’t see him. He may be ill on the floor. Every look, every kiss, every easy touch falls under a different, awful light. “Were you waiting for an opportunity to rifle around my flat for a confession, signed and dated for you? You’ve been there while I was out, maybe you found something? But there’s nothing to find, Jon! I wouldn’t—”

“I didn’t think it was you!” Jon says.

Martin doesn’t, won’t, can’t look at him. He’s not really listening. They’ve kept it a secret, this thing that they’ve been, and he’s been fine with that, but maybe that’s another opportunity Jon’s wanted. “Maybe you were going to try it with Sasha next, or Tim?”

He doesn’t know what he’s saying, his thoughts and words avalanching over each other breakneck, and he doesn’t know if he means a word of it, but his face is warm and the rest of him is cold, and there are tears threatening at his eyes, because he’s been _happy_ and he should have expected it to be ruined sooner or later.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jon says, impatience in it, like Martin’s the one who’s so paranoid he took a letter to a parent as potential evidence. “I’m with you for you.”

“Sure,” Martin says, “while you’ve thought I might have killed Gertrude.”

“But even if you had, I still wanted—”

Martin laughs, hollow disbelief and horror. He sits up and says, hot and quiet, “Is that supposed to be better? I was worth it even if I was a murderer?”

He can see on Jon’s face that yes, it _was_ supposed to be better, and feels sick all over again.

“How could you think—how could you kiss me when—” Martin knows he’s babbling, repeating himself, falling all to pieces. But he can’t think. Of course this was all too good to be true. Jon’s been in his home, in his bed, let Martin wrap his hands around his cock when he thought those same hands might have held the gun that shot Gertrude Robinson. And Martin’s just loved him, stupid and witless and unassuming. “There’s something wrong with you, Jon.”

Jon says, “Martin,” reaching for him again, his face a rush of blood.

Martin stands and turns away. “I’m going home.”

“Martin,” Jon says again, when he’s at the door. His voice is unfairly steady when Martin’s heart is in the midst of tearing. “There is something going on here, and I cannot trust anyone until I know what it is. But I want to trust you.”

“Well,” Martin says without looking back, “you let me know when you decide to.”


	10. ruined things

Tears are stinging at Martin’s eyes before he’s made it through the Institute gates.

A murderer.

Jon actually thought he might be a murderer and was sharing his bed all the while, practically moved in with him though neither of them ever really acknowledged that point. Martin doesn’t make it all the way home before sick bubbles up into his throat. He bolts into the nearest shop with an available toilet and retches into it. He looks the worst he has since a rough night of drinking after a row with his mother. But he’s allowed to look wretched when he’s just found out the man he was properly falling in lo—the man’s he’s dating, if they are still dating after today, thought he might have been a killer.

Martin wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and spits into the sink. He cups water and swishes it back and forth in his mouth. The sour taste of last night’s dinner, revisited, remains. He does his best to put himself back together before exiting the restroom.

It doesn’t do a lot of good. A woman pulls her child away from him like he’s been day drinking and it’s catching. If only that were actually the case.

 _I was happy,_ he thinks. He ought to have known that wouldn’t last. It never does, for him. Really, he should only be surprised it went on as long as it did.

He chucks Jon’s orange chicken when he gets home.

* * *

Jon is still for a long time after Martin has gone. The only movement in him is the clench of his hand around a pen.

“Idiot,” he mutters. “You absolute damn idiot, Jon.”

It can’t have been Martin. He’s known that for a long time. But of course his paranoia—and his anger and his downright _stupidity_ —they’ve all gotten the better of him. He shouldn’t have presented it that way. Shouldn’t have come accusatory out of the gate, like there was ever anything to suspect Martin of aside from showering him with too much affection.

No. He shouldn’t have said anything. Not at all. He should have trusted that Martin had nothing to do with it.

He reaches, eventually, for his mobile and dials Martin’s number from memory. There aren’t many he knows, but Martin’s has shown on his screen so many times that he might recite it in his sleep.

It goes directly to voicemail. Jon listens the entire way through, his chest going tight at the sound of Martin’s voice. The recording he’s made is full of ‘ums’ and little pauses that Jon could predict. At the tone he says, “Martin,” and then, “I’m sorry,” and then he falls silent until the time runs out.

He doesn’t know what to say.

Jon drops his head into one hand. In his mind he sees Martin’s face crumple all over again. He hears the hurt in his voice.

After that, does he really deserve to say anything to Martin?

* * *

The trouble with Jon having spent so much time in Martin’s flat, helping him pack, sitting on the couch, kissing absolutely everywhere, is that Martin cannot look at anything without feeling him there. Feeling the absence of him.

He eats dinner on the living room floor, because he’s manhandled Jon onto the kitchen table before; now the thought of it, of Jon breathing his name, just on the verge of orgasm, makes him ill, and he throws away half his meal.

He tosses and turns in bed, because he wants Jon here and he wants Jon nowhere near him. He runs to vomit again in the middle of the night, and stays bent over the toilet for an hour, just in case. His breathing takes a long time to steady.

By morning, Martin has gotten maybe an hour of sleep. He considers getting ready for work, not that he’ll be of any use, but he doesn’t think he can face Jon yet. So he loads up his laptop just long enough to send an e-mail announcing that he’ll be absent today—that he’s sick with stomach problems—and then he shuts his phone down as well, for good measure.

He’s halfway through an episode of EastEnders, his eyes glazed over, when he recalls that ‘stomach problems’ were the excuse presented by Jane Prentiss. He jerks upright. Guilt washes through him. He quashes it down. Jon doesn’t get his guilt. Jon’s the one who went and…went and…

But what about him? He knew Jon was struggling with Gertrude’s murder. He should have realized just how much it was playing at the Archivist’s mind. Maybe he would have, if he wasn’t so caught up in everything. If Jon didn’t kiss him so well. If Jon didn’t seem so content. Happy, even, and Martin thinks that’s been because of him, and that’s lovely, isn’t it?

Still. There’s no justifying suspecting him of murder.

Still.

* * *

 _I won_ _’t be in today, Jon. I’m having stomach problems._

 Jon reads the e-mail over a second time. He feels faint. Reads it a third time. It can’t have been intentional. Martin—Martin is too kind to ever directly, intentionally, hurt someone that way, no matter what they’ve done to him. Jon has earned it, if it is intentional; but he knows it’s not. He closes the lid of his laptop harder than necessary.

This is his own damn fault. He hasn’t got the right to be upset with anybody but himself.

“Are you all right?” Sasha asks from the doorway. “You look ill.”

“I’m fine,” Jon says. He feels like he’s pinched something. “Is there something you need?”

His focus is in ruins the entire day. There’s nothing to be done for it. Names in files blur together. At one point he finds Tim actually waving a hand in front of his face and saying, “Humanity to Jon, hello Jonathan Sims,” and when he doesn’t snap at him, Tim looks concerned.

He’d ruined things with Georgie well enough. Ruined things so she shouted at him and he shouted back and there had been slammed doors and tears for her and hot anger for him. Ruined things so thoroughly that they haven’t spoken in years.

_I'm not doing that again._

Jon stands, barely glancing at the time. Five is late enough for him to leave. His legs protest the speed at which he does so. He doesn’t rightly know what he’s doing, even as he goes to do it. How do people usually make up for these things?

He finds himself in a flower shop, looking helplessly at the selection. His nose protests being there at all. His eyes water. They’re in all shapes and colors and he knows flowers have meanings, but he doesn’t know what they are and maybe Martin does. It seems like the sort of thing Martin would know. For his poetry.

A shop girl approaches him and asks, “Are you looking for something in particular?”

Jon points limply at the first precut bouquet he sees. There are roses in it, and calla lilies, and it would look nice in Martin’s bedroom window as long as he’s in his current flat. He practically croaks, “I’ll take those,” and at the till he adds a box of chocolates sat out.

“Good luck,” the shop girl says. “You look like you need it.”

He would be offended if she weren’t entirely correct.

* * *

There’s a knock on the door.

Martin is stood in the middle of the living room when it comes, a pint of ice cream in one hand and a spoon in the other. Yes, it’s a cliche, and he knows he’s being one, but he doesn’t care. It’s a cliche because it feels good to stand and eat mint chocolate chip directly from the container while crying. He’s not, at the moment. Crying. But he was earlier and he hasn’t washed it from his face yet.

A second knock.

There’s only one real possibility. Somebody who hadn’t come to check on him last time he was supposedly suffering from stomach problems and would do this time. Somebody he doesn’t want to see right now. Somebody he’s nearly offered a key. It’s a relief, now, that he hadn’t actually gotten that far, that the words stuck in his throat any time he started to say them.

A third knock and then, “Martin?” in a tone that makes him want to hide under a blanket or throw the door open.

He takes a bite of his ice cream and keeps his eyes trained on the television screen.

“Martin,” again, frustrated and the sort of sad that doesn’t know how to express itself and comes out angry. “Martin, I’m sorry. I was—I knew—” He gets quieter, but not so quiet Martin cannot hear him. “No, not the point, Jon.” Louder again. “Please let me in. I just want to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Martin says, not loud enough to carry through the door.

There’s a stretch of quiet and he thinks Jon may have gone.

Then he hears, “All right. All right, I’ll just leave these here. I am sorry. Please come back to—” Jon’s voice falters. Martin hears him shuffling outside the door for a moment. He waits several minutes before looking through the spyhole.

There’s no sign of Jon now, so he opens the door. Sitting just to the side are a bouquet and a box of chocolates.

“Oh,” he says, a flare of anger in his chest. “Oh, Jon, no.”

Is it supposed to be that easy? Give Martin a smile and an apology and sweet gifts and he’ll have you right back no matter what it is you’ve done to him? He dumps the gifts into the garbage.

Once they’re out of sight, he sits at the kitchen table and stares at his hands. He takes his mobile from his pocket and swipes through his photos. There aren’t many of them, as Jon’s not a fan of the camera. But there’s a nice one he’s got of them in the park, half a smile on Jon’s face, the sunlight catching them nicely. They’d kissed a moment later, Jon’s fingers on his cheek, and the smile was a full one when they parted.

Martin stands and pulls Jon’s gifts from the bin. The bag was otherwise empty.

The flowers he transfers to a vase and leaves on the table. The chocolates stay beside them.

He types, _I don_ _’t know what to do_ , and deletes it. 

* * *

Morning greets Jon with another e-mail from Martin. He’s staying home again. Avoiding Jon, and why shouldn’t he? But there’ll be words from upstairs if he’s out too long. Questions from Elias. Besides that, Jon needs to see him. To explain himself. To justify his—no, he’s not going to justify any of it. What can he possibly do except apologize, and how can he do even that when Martin won’t face him or accept his calls? An apology via text message doesn’t feel strong or true enough.

Jon makes it most of the day before calling, “Tim, can you come in here a minute?”

Tim pokes his head into the room. “You rang?”

“Shut the door,” Jon says, and Tim’s eyes go a little wide. He sighs. “I need help and you’re the resident expert on—romance.”

That puts a light in Tim’s eyes that Jon doesn’t trust one bit. He sounds practically gleeful. “Romance? Jon, I want to know everything.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Jon says flatly. Tim shuts the door and comes closer anyway. Good lord, the man’s bouncing up and down on the soles of his feet. Is it really so momentous, Jon having a love life? Hm. He supposes that’s fair. “What do you do when you hurt someone you care about? Really hurt them.”

Tim looks less surprised that Jon’s managed this. Instead he looks somewhat put-out. “Why do you assume I have the answer?”

Jon arches an eyebrow.

“Okay,” Tim says. “Right. Well. Whatever you did and whoever you did it to, you’re just going to have to apologize.”

“I already tried that.” Jon forces himself not to look away, self-conscious as he feels. “Flowers and everything.”

Tim’s mouth twitches. “It’s important to you?”

“Very.” Jon tugs at his collar.

“All right.” Tim leans in close, his expression graver than entirely called for. Or maybe it’s appropriately grave. Tim _is_ the expert here. “Then you try again, Jon. And if it doesn’t work after that,” he straightens, shrugs, and finishes, “That’s when you’ve probably got to let it go, painful as it might be.”

Jon’s chest does something painful at the thought of letting it go. Letting Martin go. He hasn’t a clue when he became this. The sort of person who feels helpless at the thought of never having the full force of Martin’s smile focused on him again. He wants to continue being this person. He says, “I’ll do that. Thank you, Tim.”

“Sure thing.” Tim eyes him curiously. “Sure you don’t want to tell me the details?”

“I’m sure.”

“All right then.” Tim makes for the door. Over his shoulder he says, “Good luck, boss. I mean it.”

Jon leaves immediately.

Soon, Martin’s door looms in front of him like a thing unsurpassable. He knocks and he waits. He’s not going to beg to be let in today. If Martin wants to see him, he’ll open the door. If not—then he’ll go. He doesn’t know what he’ll do after that. But he will go.

It doesn’t come to that. The door opens this time and there’s Martin, looking more put together than Jon expected him to be. That’s a good sign, he thinks. Martin doesn’t say a word and his face is impossible to read. They stand in a silence less comfortable than usual until Martin says, “Well?”

Jon wants to kiss him. He says, “Can I come in?”

“Suppose so.” Martin steps back to let Jon through, and Jon closes the door.

“I’m sorry,” is the next thing out of him, breathless, not yet desperate. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Martin.”

“You thought I might be a murderer, Jon,” Martin says, taking a step back though Jon has made no move to touch him. He knows he hasn’t got that right at present, much as he wants to run a hand through Martin’s mess of hair. “You don’t just apologize that away.”

“I don’t know what else to do.” Jon leans against the door and tries very hard not to think of Martin pushing him into it. There’s a flicker on Martin’s face that makes him think Martin is having a similar problem. “I was scared. You found Gertrude’s body and I—I _am_ scared, Martin.”

“Did you think it the whole time we were—” Martin breaks off and waves a hand in the air, like he can’t bring himself to finish the thought. “I don’t want—I can’t—I _will_ not be part of a relationship with—”

“No, I didn’t—” Jon pinches the bridge of his nose.  “I should never have let myself think it was you. I didn’t really. It shouldn’t have gone as far as it did.”

“No.” Martin folds his arms over his chest, but there’s something softening in his shoulders. “It shouldn’t have.”

Jon says, “I understand if you choose to break up with me. It’s what I deserve.”

“And what about what I deserve,” Martin says. His voice doesn’t crack. Jon thinks it’s close.

“Someone who doesn’t suspect you of murder, I’m sure.” Jon smiles, almost, but the next words out of his mouth are as close to a plea as he’s ever heard himself. “Tell me what to do.”

Martin shakes his head and Jon’s heart sinks. “Jesus, Jon,” he says. “It should be obvious. If we’re going to be anything, you have to trust me. If you want to find out what happened to Gertrude, fine, so do I, I’ll help you, but you can’t hide anything. You include me.”

“Yes,” Jon says, so without hesitation it surprises Martin. He sees it on his face. It surprises him, too, the ease with which it comes out. That he means it. If there’s anybody for him to trust, it’s Martin. “Can we—”

“I’m not breaking up with you,” Martin interrupts. His relief is a physical thing. “I ought to, I think, but I’ve been—second chances, that’s me. What were you going to say yesterday? I heard you and you stopped saying something.”

“Come back to me,” Jon says, for yesterday and for today. “Please, Martin.”

Martin nods. “Okay.”

It feels too easy. Jon’s not going to complain. He begins to step toward him, only for Martin to take a step back. “I think,” Martin says, taking a deep, collecting breath, “I’m not ready to—I still need a little time.”

Jon deflates. “Yes, of course. I’ll go for the night. Will you be at work tomorrow?”

“Well,” Martin says, giving him a half-hearted smile, “you can stay for a little while.”


	11. that sort of idiot

The first week is the most awkward.

The day Martin returns to work, Jon sits him down in his office and tells him about his burgeoning investigations. He complains about the slowness of the police, grumbles his wish that the police had forgotten a tape or two when combing through the dirt. As well, he plays Martin his ‘supplemental’ tapes, and Martin gives him a long look at that.

“That’s not healthy, Jon,” he says, and Jon says, at length, “I know.”

It all comes out slowly, but it does come out, and that’s the point, isn’t it?

Also, Martin doesn’t shake him for having gone into the tunnels long before he was recovered, though he does seriously consider it, and he thinks he should be rewarded for strangling the urge instead of Jon.

They spend less time together, and it feels like they’ve got to. Neither of them mentions how ill-fitting it seems after the copious amounts of time in each other’s company, learning how to fit themselves together. It’s meant to be breathing room; Martin Blackwood and Jonathan Sims may both suffocate beneath it.

* * *

It occurs to Martin, in a very belated way, that he and Jon had been moving awfully fast, taken a running leap into this relationship. He hadn’t complained. Why should he complain when he’d spent several years pining over Jon, long before the Archive? If anything he’d looked on it like a blessing, that Jon wanted him just as much, and if he was somewhat secretive…possibly he shouldn’t have looked right past that.

* * *

The second week is an improvement.

It is different. Of course it is. Only an idiot would expect things to go back to just how they were and Martin—all right, yes, he’s an idiot when it comes to Jon, he always has been and has a feeling he always will be, particularly when Jon looks at him behind Sasha’s back and gives him a tentative smile.

But he’s not _that_ sort of idiot.

They have dinner twice, and spend Saturday afternoon in Hyde Park, Jon not once letting go of Martin’s hand; that evening is the first time he sees Jon’s flat.

* * *

It’s not that Martin doesn’t want to barrel on ahead in their relationship. More that he’s decided to think it through this time. He’s a grown man, and he doesn’t have to let himself go stupid with love. He’s got a handle on himself, except for when Jon slides a thumb up the middle of his palm or says his name in that quiet way intended just for him.

* * *

The third week, Jon surprises him.

They leave the Institute at one, not bothering to hide it; to the eye, there’s no reason they should be anything but coworkers having lunch together. They find their way to the same restaurant they visited for breakfast their first morning having a go at something like a relationship. Once they’ve ordered, Martin scrolls idly through his phone. His hunt for a new flat is ongoing; he’s begun to think his standards, low as they are, may still be too high.

Sat across the table, Jon watches people pass by outside. He says, “We can tell them,” more than one note in it that Tim would translate as uptight, but Martin recognizes for anxious.

“Tell who what?” Martin looks up from his phone.

“Tim.” Jon’s eyes are still on the street, like mentioning Tim will bring him running. “And Sasha. Anyone else you want to tell about us.”

Martin shakes his head. “Not yet.” The crease in Jon’s brow is all he needs to know Jon is taking that the wrong way. “It’s not in case I decide to break up with you after all, Jon. I just…want to keep it between us a little longer?”

It feels more than ever, after Jon’s suspicions and accusations, like something he wants to hold tight to his chest for as long as he can.

Jon still looks wounded, just a twitch in his jaw, so Martin covers his hand with his own. If Tim or Sasha or even Elias walks by in the moment, so be it. Jon flips his hand up, twines their fingers, and it reminds Martin so strongly of the first time, he swallows. “If that’s what you want,” Jon says, his voice almost brisk.

It’s an odd sort of power to hold over him. Martin doesn’t think he cares for it; relationships aren’t about having power.

He kisses Jon, once, gently, before they return to the Institute.

Jon takes him to his flat again that night, the next, and the next.

* * *

Jon leaves the Institute with Martin every evening, though they don’t go home together. He’s affectionate in small ways, letting his hands brush over Martin as he passes, pulling him in for quick kisses when they’re in his office. He says, “I’m sorry,” against Martin’s mouth.

He apologizes often. Martin hasn’t yet told him that it’s not necessary; he’s not yet sure that it isn’t.

* * *

The fourth week, Jon says, “Come home with me.”

It’s Friday. Tim and Sasha have already left, and Martin is just putting a few things in order for the following week. Jon appears at his side almost like a phantom. There’s a pinch in his voice. It’s not the most welcoming thing in the world, but that’s just Jon, and Martin doesn’t take it personally.

“Sure,” Martin says, standing and shouldering his bag. The relief on Jon’s face makes his stomach hurt. It’s like he still expects Martin to walk away from him at any moment. Martin knows the feeling; he felt the same way about Jon, at first. Surely neither of them should just be waiting on the other to leave.

“Jon,” he says, and stops. He doesn’t know what he means to say. He settles on an unsatisfying, “Should we go?”

It’s still odd, being in Jon’s flat. The place doesn’t feel entirely lived-in. Jon keeps his things here, but there’s nothing that turns it into a home, no piles of clutter or cherished knickknacks or family photographs. It does smell like vanilla, courtesy of a candle burning in the living room. Martin perches at the edge of the couch, never sure it’s a place that’s actually meant to be sat. It’s silly, because what else is a couch for, but he’s not convinced this one sees much use. He has the fleeting thought that it must feel lonely. _Toy Story_ ruined him for inanimate objects as a child; he hasn’t recovered.

“We’ll have to order in.” Jon comes in from the kitchen, a scowl lingering on his face. “I haven’t been shopping.”

“All right.” Martin expected as much. He’d peeked into Jon’s cupboards in search of tea, the first time Jon asked him over, and found them woefully barren. There _was_ tea, and oatmeal, among other food, but it was a stark visual. Jon hasn’t yet been trapped inside his flat as motivation to get better about filling his cupboards, not that Martin particularly recommends that method. The experience wasn’t worth the result. “I think pizza.”

They haven’t had Chinese. It’s not intentional. Martin thinks it’s not even conscious, and it’s somewhat stupid, as it wasn’t the takeaway’s fault.

Jon calls in their order and turns on the television to a not entirely awful drama. It had surprised Martin, his first time here, that Jon owned one at all, and Jon admitted to never using the thing. Neither of them pay it much attention, now, as Martin frees a composition book from his bag, and Jon picks the book he’s reading off the end table. They sit at opposite ends of the couch; this is their new normal, and Martin hates it as much as he hates anything. He was happier, before.

Jon says, “This is ridiculous,” and stands up, leaving his book behind.

Then he’s beside Martin, one hand catching his chin, and Martin can feel himself trembling. “Is it all right if I kiss you?”

Martin manages a smile. “Always.”

Jon’s thumb runs over Martin’s lips, his return smile is gorgeous; Martin thinks of writing it into a poem, but then they’re kissing, and he shoves his composition book away, ignoring the crinkling of pages as it hits the floor. It’s slow, almost exploratory again, like a reminder that this is all right, this is something they’ve done before, can return to doing.

_Just like riding a bicycle,_ Martin thinks, and laughs at his own thought.

Jon pulls back a little. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Never,” Martin says, eyes going to Jon’s mouth; he likes how red it goes when they kiss, had nearly forgotten how much he likes it.

“That is blatantly untrue.”

“Well,” Martin says, “I can’t help it when you lecture Tim on using Institute funds to woo government officials. You always look so serious.”

Jon snorts and comes in for another kiss.

They haven’t really—oh, of course there have been kisses since their reconciliation, Martin hasn’t got it in him _not_ to kiss Jon, but it hasn’t been like this. There hasn’t been so much life in it, the vigor and enthusiasm that marked their kisses prior. This makes him feel like things are going to be normal again—their normal—sooner, sooner. Like maybe he can allow himself to feel in love without worrying it’ll come crashing down around his ears. Like he can have something good, no matter the tarnishing.

Jon’s got a hand working its way under Martin’s jumper, fingers skimming his stomach just above his waistband, when there’s a knock at the door. Martin makes an unhappy sound as Jon climbs off of him. He’d been about to suck a new mark at the base of Jon’s throat, where it’d be hidden under fabric, there for both of them to think about throughout the day. He says, “Not the best timing.”

Jon gives him a wry smile, his old smile, and Martin relishes it. “On our part or theirs?”

“Both?” Martin suggests.

Jon makes himself presentable on the way to the door. Martin doesn’t bother, leaving his shirt rumpled and his hair mussed. He tastes Jon in his mouth, the chocolate biscuits he’d eaten earlier in the evening. He makes his way into the kitchen and reaches into the appropriate cupboard. At least Jon owns a proper set of dishes. When he shuts the cupboard he finds Jon in the doorway, pizza balanced on one arm, a peculiar look on his face as he watches Martin.

“What?” he says, setting the plates down. “Something on my face?”

Jon shakes his head and comes forward. Their meal passes uneventfully; they discuss what they might do this weekend, an art installation Martin wants to see, and a lecture at King’s that Jon’s considering. When they’ve washed up, Jon says, “Martin.”

“Yes?” He hangs the dishrag to dry over the oven door handle.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say.” His voice has gone tight. “Something I wanted to ask—I wanted to talk to you, and it hasn’t seemed like the right time, but if I keep putting it off—”

“I’m here now,” Martin says. “We’re nice and alone.”

Jon sets a key on the countertop.

“What’s this?” Martin keeps his voice carefully free of inflection, almost a match to the cool disinterest Jon used to point his direction every day. He knows full well what it is. He’s not thick. They’re in Jon’s flat and he’s complained almost daily about how much trouble he’s had with moving and Jon’s put a key out. It’s obvious what it is.

“Move in with me,” Jon says, and even though Martin knew where this was going, hearing the words twists his gut like an incident involving the Fairchilds.

“Oh,” he says, and then, painfully, “No.”

“Why not? Jon’s brow furrows. “You haven’t found a place yet, and there’s plenty of room here.”

_Because,_ Martin thinks, _you_ _’re only asking because you feel guilty._

“Jon,” he says aloud, reaching for Jon before he’s gotten further away, be it physically or mentally. It’s not something he would have felt welcome to do as recently as two months ago. Jon stiffens, then relaxes against Martin’s chest. “You know I’m not going to leave you, right?”

“I don’t know that,” Jon says, something irritated in it that Martin thinks is covering fear.

“Jon,” he says again, “if I wanted to break up with you, I’d have done it already, I wouldn’t be, I dunno, having you on? I want to be with you. But I’m not…I don’t think you’re asking for the right reasons.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Jon says, unhappy. He stuffs the key into a pocket.

“Hey,” Martin says, and waits for Jon to meet his eyes. “I will stay the night, if you want me to.”

* * *

Slowing down is smart.

It’s obvious, after that, that Jon is disappointed. Martin stops mentioning his search. But Jon can hardly expect him to jump on moving in with him after…well.

Slowing down is safe.

When they’re moving breakneck and one of them falls off, there’ll be a broken neck.

Slowing down is the worst thing they’ve ever done.

He’d have said yes without hesitating, before.

* * *

The fifth week, Martin considers tying Jon to a chair for his own good.

“I was considering going into the tunnels again,” Jon says one evening. He gives Martin a weighted look, and Martin wonders if there’s something in particular Jon wants him to say.

What he does say is, “I hope you’re not thinking of doing it on your own again.”

Jon casts a look in the direction of the trap door. Martin does his best, on the good days, to pretend it isn’t there. On the bad days, he imagines it bursting open with an avalanche of worms and Gertrude’s corpse among them. The bad days have gotten further between as time has passed. Today, his skin crawls.

In halting tones, Jon says, “Would you come with me?”

Martin sighs. “If you’re going to insist. I’ll go anywhere with you, Jon.”

“I’m not going tonight.” Jon gives him a smile probably intended to be reassuring. Tonight, tomorrow, the occasion’s not the issue here.

“I thought,” he says, “you weren’t as interested in the tunnels as you wanted us all to believe if we listened to your statement.”

“I think there’s something down there. I don’t think that something killed Gertrude.” Jon runs his fingers absently over the buttons on the tape player. “I don’t think the thing in the tunnels would use a gun.”

“I love you,” Martin says, trailing a hand through Jon’s hair, oddly at ease, “and you’re being very stupid.”

Jon stares at him, and stares at him, for long enough that he looks away, becoming interested in a statement on Jon’s desk. It pertains to a ‘ghost’ that’s almost certainly faulty wiring. He wishes everything were so mundane, that the Institute deserved to be the laughingstock it is. Eventually he says, “You know it wasn’t Tim, right? Or Sasha?”

Jon says a dry, “Not going to jump to Elias’ defense?”

“I don’t—” Martin scrunches his face up. “I wouldn’t be surprised? But it wasn’t any of us and you’ve got to start trusting them. You trust me.”

It’s a careful thing to say. Jon trusts him now. He’s curious how Jon will react.

“Yes.” Jon exhales, long and frustrated and disappointed. “Of course I do. Christ, I’ve really mucked things up, haven’t I?”

It takes Martin a moment to realize he’s not talking about the investigation. He says, “It’s nothing that can’t be fixed. I’m very forgiving. Now, if you’d gone for Tim, I don’t know, he seems the type to hold a grudge.”

Jon scoffs. "I would never kiss Tim."

* * *

It only occurs to Martin later, when he’s lying in his own bed, that he’d never given Jon those words before.

* * *

The sixth week, Martin falls in love again.

The first thing he says upon entering Jon’s flat at half seven on Saturday is, “You cooked.”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” Jon says, his face doing something that says he wants to roll his eyes and is trying to be kinder than that. “I have kept myself alive this long. It wasn’t strictly on takeaway. I’d be halfway to my grave by now.”

“It’s not that,” Martin says, though it was, mostly. He tugs his jacket off and hangs it by the door; Jon owns a proper coat rack. “I didn’t realize it was a cooking night. Is there an occasion I don’t know about?”

The flat smells quite good, actually, garlic and rosemary overpowering the candle.

“No occasion,” Jon says. “I just wanted to cook for you.”

He says it awkwardly, already on his way into the kitchen again. Martin smiles at his back.

The table is laid out with chicken, vegetables, a thick roll of bread. It all tastes as delectable as it smells. Martin should be wolfing it down, but there’s a little voice in the back of his head that won’t let him alone. He pushes a bite listlessly around his plate.

Jon says something he doesn’t hear. “Hm?”

“I said,” Jon says, “I thought I might ask Elias to have dinner with me tomorrow so that I can seduce information out of him. Would that be all right with you?”

Martin blinks at him. “Pardon?”

Jon looks bemused. “I was asking if you’re staying over tonight, but is something the matter, Martin? You’ve been prodding at your green beans for five minutes.”

Martin takes a breath. He just wants the voice, the worrisome little part of him, to stop talking. “You haven’t been inviting me over just to make up for before, have you? Because you never wanted to have me over, because you didn’t trust me, and I don’t want—”

Jon sets his fork down and pushes his plate away. “Martin.”

He goes on babbling. “And asking me to move in with you, that was—you can’t possibly want that, Jon, you can’t.”

“Can’t I?” Jon says, and Martin wants to take it all back, rewind the tape. This is supposed to be a nice night. A perfectly pleasant date. And here he’s got to go dredging this up. But it’s important. He can’t keep on this road without knowing what Jon means, when he says things. He’d thought he had it figured out, and he hadn’t, and now he’s not sure he’ll ever have any of it figured out again.

“Guilty as I’ve felt,” Jon says, “that’s not why I asked you to move in with me.”

“Then why did you?” Martin’s voice is little more than a wisp.

“I asked you to move in with me because I like waking up with you and I’d like to do so every day.”

“Jon.” He forces himself to look up from his plate.

“Martin.” Jon’s studying him, a look on his face Martin’s never seen there before. “I know I haven’t been the best at any of this. But I love you.”

Martin’s breath stops. Neither of them have made mention of Martin saying it, and Jon certainly hasn’t said it back. He says, “You had better come over here.”

Jon crosses the room and Martin meets him on his feet, and Jon’s hands go to his shoulders, and when they part, he says, “All right.”

“All right?” Jon says, his breath coming fast.

“All right.” Martin kisses him again. “I’ll move in with you.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jon smile like that before.

“Are you going to stay tonight?”

“I haven’t brought any clothes with me,” Martin says. The voice has helpfully shut its mouth, giving him leave to focus on Jon’s, the thought of sucking Jon’s lip between his teeth. “Or a toothbrush.”

“I have an extra toothbrush,” Jon says, and he laughs.

“Then I suppose I can do without extra clothes.”

“I think you could do without any clothes.”

It’s early, and dinner is half-eaten on the table, and Jon went to all the trouble of cooking it, but he can’t expect Martin not to pull him toward the bedroom once he’s said that. Martin turns the light on, wants a clear view of Jon while he’s touching him; he likes watching the minute changes on Jon’s face as much during sex as any other time, or more.

Now Martin pushes Jon back, onto the bed, undoing his buttons even as they arrange themselves, Jon hedged in between Martin’s elbows. Their kisses are wetter now, Jon sucking at Martin’s tongue, and Martin makes a sound in the back of his throat, rolls his hips down and then it’s Jon groaning, and Martin breathes out hard.

He yanks at Jon’s trousers, more eager than before to strip him down to nothing. Jon pushes them down himself, kicking away both trousers and briefs. It’s far from the first time Martin has seen Jon naked, but he stops and takes in the sight of it anyway, running two fingers up the curve of his cock, wanting nothing more than to hear his breath stutter like that again.

“You’re wearing too much,” Jon says, his eyes fluttering closed when Martin’s hand wraps around him, strokes lazily up and down.

“Suppose I am,” Martin says. “Want to do something about it?”

“Come here.” Jon reaches for him and he goes willingly, enjoying the weight of Jon in his hand, his thumb trailing over the precum he finds beaded at the head, and Jon makes a little _nnh_ into his mouth that has his hips rolling into the air between them. They separate long enough for Jon to pull Martin’s shirt over his head, and Jon’s undoing the button on his jeans, tugging the zipper down. Martin kisses him again, wanting to feel him everywhere.

He trails kisses down Jon’s collarbone, down his chest, until he’s between his legs. He nuzzles at Jon’s inner thigh, presses a kiss there before putting his teeth in the same spot, intending to leave a mark that Jon will be conscious of all day long.

Jon’s fingers find their way into his hair. There’s no tugging, no attempt to push Martin onto his cock, though Jon’s hips are moving, rocking back and forth into Martin’s hand; there’s only a quickening of breath above him, only the gentlest carding of fingers.

“Martin,” he says, and he sounds a little desperate, and that goes right to Martin’s cock, “Fuck me.”

Martin looks up, his hand faltering. He’s not sure he heard correctly. “What?”

Jon’s face is flushed and Martin appreciates, even now, what it does for his skin tone. “I said fuck me.”

Martin crawls back up him, kisses him hard and messy. Jon has let Martin come down his throat, and Martin has pushed fingers inside of him, and Jon’s been enthusiastic about it, made sounds that Martin imagines every time he’s coming in his own hands, but he’s been under the impression that more than that, that _fucking_ was…that Jon didn’t.

He says, “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Jon catches his free hand and brings it to his mouth. He kisses the palm, then guides it down his own side, along his ass, and Martin doesn’t really need to be directed to run a fingertip over him. “I want _you_ , Martin.”

“Oh.” Martin lets go of his cock and uses that hand to squeeze Jon’s ass, spreading him just a little; he watches the way Jon’s chest moves when his finger teases at the idea of pushing into him.

“In the drawer,” Jon says, his eyes halfway to shut.

Martin leaves him there, his own eyes darting back just to look at him, and he’s never wanted anybody the way he wants Jonathan Sims. He locates the lubricant easily enough—it’s been opened, is a third empty, and he wonders if Jon’s fucked himself open before, thought about him while he’s done it, but he isn’t brave enough to ask. He spends several minutes more rooting around in the drawer, until he feels Jon sitting up behind him, and hears him say, “Are you having trouble?”

“I can’t find a condom?” Martin says, frustrated with himself and the drawer.

“I don’t have any.”

Martin’s head whips around so fast it hurts. “And you still want to—Jon, are you thinking clearly?”

“I’m thinking just fine. We don’t have to, but I haven’t been with anyone else in a number of years, and I trust that you’re clean. I think we’ll be safe enough.” Jon searches out his hand among the sheets and pulls Martin forward until he loses his balance and tips onto him, hand splayed across Jon’s stomach. “Do you want to fuck me?”

The rational part of Martin suggests this is a poor decision. It’s drowned out by the part of him that says, “Yes, hell,” and it’s Jon who pops the cap of the lube, who squirts some of it onto Martin’s hand, and Martin moans, himself, when Jon lies back and spreads his legs. Martin crooks one of Jon’s legs and keeps his eyes on Jon’s face as he breaches him with one finger, and Jon shudders, and Martin has to focus on his own breathing, in and out, in and out, not on the way Jon’s saying his name or how tight Jon is around his finger, or he’s going to come embarrassingly quickly.

“More,” Jon says, and Martin obliges him, and Jon’s hips roll down, hard. Martin pinches himself. He’s dripping onto the bed, watching Jon drip onto his stomach, and he can’t help himself: he leans forward to lick a strip up Jon’s cock even as he’s pressing a third finger into him, and Jon shouts, jerking up.

Martin puts a hand on his hip, says, “Stay still for me, Jon,” and closes his lips over the head of his cock. He hears a steady stream of _please, Martins_ and _ah, hnns_ and sharp breaths from above. He crooks his fingers inside of Jon, presses them in deeper to prepare Jon for his cock, and then there’s a hand in his hair again, grabbing harder this time, and Jon sounds remarkably put together, comparatively speaking, when he says, “I’m going to come if you don’t fuck me.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” he says earnestly, coming off of Jon’s cock with a wet sound; he licks at the head again before sitting up, and Jon makes a low sound.

“You might not,” Jon says, peevish, “but I’d rather come with you inside of me, if you don’t mind.”

Martin’s not sure if he should laugh or groan. He decides on a healthy middle ground of reaching for the lube again. Jon snatches it before he has it, and steadfastly ignores Martin’s ogling as he pours a generous amount onto his own hand. Martin does all he can do, which is kiss him, moaning into his mouth as Jon’s hand works over his cock.

“Are you all right?” Martin asks, when Jon’s guiding his cock toward his entrance, and Jon replies by hooking an ankle around him, and there’s nothing for Martin to do but sink into him. He goes slow, presses inside, deeper, until he’s bottomed out; the sound Jon makes, something of a moan and a cry, has his toes curling. It’s unbelievably tight, and so hot that Martin has to remain still or _fuck_ this is going to be over too quickly.

“Martin,” Jon says, his voice shaking, and Martin kisses away a bead of sweat on his forehead. They’re pressed together practically from head to toe, and Martin wills himself to think about anything except the fact that his cock is inside of Jon, every inch of him, and Jon’s face is hot, his chest is hot, and Martin pulls out, thrusts back into him, and again, and again, until he’s built up something of a rhythm.

“You feel,” Martin says, “Jon, you feel amazing, oh god, I want you.”

Jon laughs a little, giving way to an exhaled, “Fuck,” and says, “You might— _ah_ , _Martin_ —might not have noticed, but you do have—”

He breaks off entirely with a rough thrust, Martin having lost control of his hips, and Jon shouts, and squeezes down around him, and Jon’s orgasm is all it takes to send Martin over the edge. He fucks Jon through it, committing to memory every breathy little sound, the pitch at which Jon says his name, and he pulls out slowly, easing himself down beside Jon. His cock seems almost interested again when he drags a finger over Jon’s ass, feeling his own come leaking out of him.

“That was,” he starts, breathless.

Jon kisses him then, like he needs it, one hand on Martin’s cheek, and Martin kisses him back, slow as he wants, giving Jon the lead. “That was perfect,” Jon says, after.

Martin gives him a smile. “I thought we were supposed to christen the place _after_ I moved in.”

Jon laughs, and that’s all Martin really needs.

* * *

A broken neck would be worth it, for the way Jon looks at him in the morning.


	12. Office gossip

“Are you intending to turn this in, or has it taken up permanent residence on the coffee table?” Jon indicates the paperwork, filled out in Martin’s spidery handwriting several days ago and promptly left to sit in the center of the table. He shifts it to the corner to make better room for the next box. Everything being _here_ isn’t the same as everything being _unpacked_. “In which case it’s also going to need to fill out a change of address form.”

Martin, currently working his way through a disorganized collection of hurriedly packed clothing, glances at him. “And I used to think you weren’t funny.”

“Maybe you weren’t listening,” Jon says, cutting the box open and declaring it, “More of your poetry.”

“No, I was.” Martin leans over to peek into Jon’s box. The notebooks are worn, among his oldest. He runs an idle finger along the _PROPERTY OF MARTIN K BLACKWOOD_ scratched into the topmost notebook’s cover, and allows himself a moment to enjoy the proximity. He’s allowed himself quite a few of those since they began hefting his belongings into the flat. The unpacking might well be finished by now, if he didn’t keep stopping to admire how nicely his things have begun to merge with Jon’s—the quilt sewn by his grandmother thrown over the back of the couch, the poetry collections in among the nonfiction, the cat painting he picked up on a whim at an art show hung up in the wall—or to watch Jon picking his way through his things, or indeed to back Jon up against the nearest surface and kiss him until his mouth is red; Jon’s just as guilty of the last. Neither of them are complaining. “I always listen to you.”

“You haven’t actually answered the question.”

Martin straightens up, a smile tugging at his mouth. He schools it gone. “Sorry, what was it again? I wasn’t listening.”

“The cheek,” Jon grumbles, and hauls him in, and says directly into his ear, “Are you intending to turn in your change of address, or should we build it a little house of its own here?”

Martin laughs, even as he’s shivering from Jon’s breath. “It looks nice where it is, don’t you think?”

“It would look nicer,” Jon says, mouth still at Martin’s ear, “handed over to Rosie, or whoever the hell handles these things.”

“Hmm,” Martin says, one hand coming to rest on Jon’s upper thigh. “You really should make an effort to get to know your coworkers, Jon.”

“Is that not what I’m doing?”

Martin opens his mouth, and then Jon’s teeth are tugging at his earlobe, and whatever he was going to say slides behind the haze of Jon. He catches the man’s face and turns him for a proper kiss, and he really can’t be held responsible for the fact that Jon lays him out across the couch and adds a new mark to his collar. He draws a hand through Jon’s hair, making a pleased sound at the trace of tongue along the mark. He says, almost thoughtfully, “This is not a productive environment.”

Jon lifts his head and waits for Martin to meet his eyes. “Do you know what is a productive environment?”

“All right, all right,” Martin says, holding up one hand in a surrendering gesture. “I’ll hand it in tomorrow.”

“Is there a reason you haven’t?” Jon asks.

“No, of course not,” he says, and Jon pins him with the sort of dubious, scrutinizing look he often gives statements before sinking his teeth into them. Sometimes, Martin finds himself thinking of it as the Archivist stare. He can’t very well escape from it with Jon atop him. He strokes a hand up Jon’s back. “I dunno. Maybe. What if somebody says something?”

“I would hope these coworkers you think I should get to know have more interesting things to do than notice that you and I are sharing an address.”

“You’ve met Tim, right?”

“Are there worse than Tim?”

“I’m telling him you said that.”

“I don’t really give a damn who notices you’ve moved in with me,” Jon says frankly. “I wanted you here. Not once did I suggest that should be a secret.”

Ah.

Martin supposes he _can_ be held responsible for slipping a hand down Jon’s trousers, then.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he says cheerfully, when Jon is making appreciative sounds against his shoulder. “This is plenty productive.”

* * *

 Something in Jon’s chest, a piece that felt like it might have been clenched in an unyielding fist, goes languid when Martin says, “I’ve turned in that paperwork.”

 Several days pass before he has occasion to think of it again.

 Jon is only just sitting down for the morning when there’s a polite rapping at his doorframe. He expects Tim or Sasha, as Martin’s upstairs fixing tea, but they’ve both just seen him on the way to his office. Maybe they need a moment in private; it’s an alarming thought for several reasons. He looks up to find Elias there instead. Even better.

“Morning, Jon,” Elias says, and Jon gives him a nod. “Have you got a moment?”

Jon gestures to the chair across from his own, knowing full well Elias won’t bother to take it. “You’ve caught me before I got into anything.”

“I hoped that would be the case.” The door shuts behind him with a _click_. He does not sit. “I try to review most of the paperwork that comes through, and I noticed Martin submitted a change of residence last week.”

“I see.” Jon’s eyebrows lift. It’s not a surprise that Elias has noticed. The man seems all-too aware of what happens throughout the Institute, with the exclusion of the more life-threatening matters; or he’s fully aware of those, too, and chooses to do nothing about them. (The second, disquieting as it is, feels the more likely.) In any case, it _is_ a surprise he’s felt any need to bring this up. “Are you sure you didn’t mean to speak to Martin?”

Elias furnishes him with a wan smile. “Unless I’m mistaken, this is also _your_ address.”

Jon ignores that Elias’ tone makes it clear he’d already confirmed it before coming downstairs. He should hope he had to confirm it. The thought that Elias might have simply known his address offhand—though for the suspicion to arise at all, he must have had some consciousness of it—Jon doesn’t care for the thought. “How astute. You’re not mistaken. I don’t see how that’s your concern.”

“Really, Jon.” Elias shakes his head, complete with a _tsking_ sound that makes Jon feel like an admonished schoolchild. “You’re living with one of your subordinates. Do you think that’s the best idea?”

“I don’t think it’s your concern.” His own tone chills. The Institute has impacted his life enough as it is. The Institute, conspiring with his own paranoia, very nearly took Martin from him already. “We haven’t got a policy about workplace dating that I’m aware of.”

(And he had checked beforehand, equal measures surprised and relieved to see there wasn’t one.)

“We haven’t had a need for a policy.” Elias doesn’t say that can change; it doesn’t need saying. “I only meant we can move him to another department if you think it necessary.”

“If I thought it necessary,” Jon says, “I would have said something myself.”

“Can you properly oversee him if you’re,” Elias’ face does something like he’s sucked on a lemon, “emotionally involved?”

“I’m perfectly capable of conducting myself professionally,” Jon says stiffly.

“But is Martin?” Elias delivers this with his ordinary crispness.

The condescension in it, like Martin is a child in need of handling, nettles at him. Not least because he’d thought of Martin in much the same way for a long time. “As we’ve been a couple for several months now,” Jon says, satisfied with the minute furrowing of Elias’ brow, “and didn’t decide to move in together on a drunken lark, and we haven’t met with an issue thus far, I would say he’s doing as well as I am. Have you seen our performances suffer?”

“Of course not,” Elias concedes. “If I’m not overstepping, I am surprised to see you with Martin. I always had the sense you didn’t like him very much, and weren’t pleased when I assigned him to you.”

_I wasn_ _’t,_ Jon thinks first. And, _Yet you assigned him to me anyhow,_ he thinks second. He doesn’t voice either of these things. “You are overstepping.”

Elias smiles at him. Jon doesn’t trust it any more than he does the man wearing it. “That was his request, you know, if he hasn’t told you. I suppose he’s gotten exactly what he wanted out of the arrangement. That’s why I asked if he’s able to work with you in a professional capacity.”

“And I told you he is.” Jon is more than ready for this conversation to reach its end. He dislikes the way Elias delivered that information, like he intended the sliver of information to have—results. What those results might be, Jon can’t say. “If there’s nothing else.”

“Do send me an invitation to the housewarming,” Elias says, and, “Give Martin my best,” and then he’s blessedly gone.

Jon steeples his fingers, bows his head, and mutters several choice words. He’s still muttering when the door creaks open again and Martin says, “Is everything all right?” before nudging the door shut behind him.

Jon’s nod is reluctant. “Elias came to ask about your change of address. If I thought you should be moved to another department. I told him no, obviously.” He’s disinclined to tell Martin about the other things Elias said, and the way he said them, at least until he’s had time to pick through them himself.

“Obviously.” Martin crosses the room. Jon gratefully intercepts the tea before it’s been placed in front of him. “I wouldn’t want to move, and I’m almost certain you wouldn’t want me to either.”

“I like having you within reach,” Jon says, and becomes incredibly interested in the pile of statements before him.

Martin laughs, and Jon wants nothing more than to bask in the sound of Martin, happy. “It’s amazing what embarrasses you.”

"Go do your job, Martin.”

“Sure, sure.” Martin drops a kiss to the top of Jon’s head before he goes, and for a little while, Jon is hard-pressed to worry over Elias’ visit.

* * *

It’s a busy day in the Archive, comparatively speaking.

That is, they’ve usually no visitors at all, and today they’re up to two, if Elias counts as a visitor, and Martin thinks he does. There’re only four of them who properly belong. Martin shuts Jon’s office door behind him again, leaving his boyfriend—boss, right now, wouldn’t want Elias thinking they’ve been unprofessional, certainly there’s been no _kissing_ in the Archive—alone with Ms. Hussain.

Another tape, probably. She’s brought Jon one of them so far, and true to his word, Jon has been honest with him. He’s even listened to the first of them. Gertrude’s voice had come almost as a shock after so long. He remembers the previous Head Archivist, a little better than Jon does; she always seemed…stern. Not unkind, but disinterested in the workings of The Magnus Institute outside of the Archive. Not entirely unlike Jon, Martin has thought and discarded more than once.

“Not trying to do some surreptitious eavesdropping, are we, Martin?” Tim says, and Martin realizes he hasn’t moved.

Martin pushes away from the door, shaking his head. “Distracted.”

“Daydreaming about being somewhere with less dust?” Tim offers, though it’s actually quite clean down here, showcasing the talents of their ventilation system. Also, Martin dusts regularly.

“Better lighting,” Sasha says, complete with a pointedly arched eyebrow. Their overhead lighting _could_ do with replacing.

“Having this lot sorted,” Martin corrects, gesturing at—well, everything.

Tim makes a _pshaw_ sound. “I was trying to keep the daydreams semi-realistic.”

“I like to dream big.” Martin sits back at his desk and looks over his current round of follow-up. The task seems less monstrously—ha, ha, very funny, Martin—when it’s split into pieces like this one. He hasn’t fully got back to concentrating when Jon’s door opens and Ms. Hussain walks out. It’s difficult to tell from her face if her mood is a good one. If they’ve been discussing murder, he doesn’t see why it would be.

“Leaving so soon?” Tim says.

“Not much to discuss,” Ms. Hussain says with a shrug. “None of you have thought of anything new, have you?”

There are “no, not reallys” all around. Martin isn’t going to outright say, _It was probably Elias_. Not until there’s more to the theory.

Tim grins at her as she leaves, waves good-bye, and as soon as the Archive door’s shut behind her, says, “She wasn’t in there long. What about her, then?”

“What about her?” Sasha asks.

“That’s the second or third time she’s come in to see Jon.” Tim gets a calculating look on his face. “He says he’s been helping her with Gertrude’s case, but what’s he going to tell her that she can’t find out somewhere else? Jon doesn’t know more about it than the rest of us. We didn’t really know Gertrude. I’m only saying maybe there’s some alternative motivation.”

Oh, god.

“You’re not suggesting what I think you are,” Sasha says, but sounds intrigued despite herself.

“I’m just saying maybe our boss has finally gotten himself a date.”

Martin puts a hand over his mouth until he’s confident in his own ability to not laugh. “I don’t think that’s right.” He sounds remarkably neutral, and is pleased with himself for it.

“But how can you really be sure, Martin?” Tim looks at him as though awaiting a thorough explanation.

“Oh,” Martin says, “I don’t think she’s his type.”

“His type?” Tim snorts. “She’s pretty, and I’m not sure Jon can afford to have a type, given he’s got the personality of a reference library.”

Martin’s not sure whether he should be more offended on Jon’s behalf or his own.

Jon steps out of his office before he’s decided. He says, into the sudden, innocent quiet, “Why do I have the sense I don’t want to know what’s happening out here?”

“Office gossip,” Sasha says sagely.

“Call me when you’ve finished,” Jon says, and begins to turn back.

Martin might just let him go. His fingers drum up and down on the desk, and he pushes to his feet to call, “Hold on, Jon. Tim thinks you and Ms. Hussain might be meeting in a more, erm, personal capacity.”

Jon frowns. “Does he?”

“I told him I don’t think so,” Martin says, trying to discern the expression on Jon’s face, which he thinks is Jon trying to discern the expression on _his_ face. “I said I don’t think she’s your type.”

“And I asked how he can be sure,” Tim says, looking a bit taken aback by Martin bringing up any of this to Jon himself.

Jon appears to feel much the same, the look on his face turned into a distinct question. It’s not Jon who’s chosen to keep them a secret thus far. But _Elias_ knows now. There’s no good reason to carry on hiding it from Tim and Sasha, if there ever was. So Martin nods, and the little smile picking at the corners of Jon’s mouth makes him wish he’d decided to be open with everyone ages ago.

“Probably,” Jon says, “because he knows my type is more—what was it you said, Tim?—the nerdy bookseller thing.”

Martin’s cheeks color.

Sasha puts down her pen.

Tim says a cheerful, “Sorry, I think my ears are in need of cleaning, because it sounded like you’re implying that you and Martin—”

“That would explain the amount of blood in Martin’s face,” Sasha says.

“Implying? That won’t do.” Jon shakes his head, and Martin wants to shake him or kiss him. “Martin and I have been dating for several months.”

“ _Several months?_ ” Tim sounds outraged. He brings a hand to his chest. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Martin smiles sheepishly. “I also moved in with him last week.”

Tim scowls. “We’re no longer friends. This is a gross betrayal of trust.”

“It was new,” Martin protests. “I wanted it to be ours for a little while.”

“A little while is a week, _maybe_ two, it’s not _months_ , it’s not, ‘Oh, by the way, we’ve already moved in together,’ and I suppose you’re already planning the wedding that I’m not going to be invited to?”

Martin wants to say something— _obviously_ Tim would be invited—but it seems he’s lost the capacity for English. Funny, what the thought of marrying Jon does to him. The best he manages is a mouselike squeak.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Tim,” Jon says, amused.

“That’s easy for you to say! Hang on. When I tried setting you up with Alicia, Martin, it’s because you were—and _Jon_ , when you came to me for advice—I should have known.”

“When he did what?” Martin asks with great interest.

“Never mind that,” Jon says.


	13. Something creepy, probably

_The tunnels are damp._

_Jon stands in a void of silence. He keeps as still as he can, listening for something, anything. He is not alone here. The air is stale, the darkness too thick for his eyes to cut through. Why did he ever come down without a torch? It would have waited. It feels like the darkness itself is waiting for him to do something. Watching him hesitate. Laughing at the racing of his heart._

_He reaches into the surrounding black. His hand finds the wall and he feels the barest amount of relief. But the dirt wall feels slicker than it ought. He retracts his hand and squints at his fingers. They shine a vibrant red. He shouldn_ _’t be able to see it so well in this layer of dark. There’s a smell, too. Iron._

_As soon as he_ _’s noticed the smell it becomes overpowering. How can he have missed it before? Something has bled here. Something has bled here a lot._

_A sound, there behind him or in front of him or beside him in the dark. The scuff of footsteps, but they_ _’re—wrong, somehow. The rhythm is all off. Two feet sounding like many more than that. He tenses, ready to bolt at the first hint of which direction is safe. (None of them are safe, he knows, but only one of them has this lurching slither of too many legs.)_

_“Oh Archivist,” a voice says. It’s a voice like the hive, but it isn’t Jane Prentiss. This voice is too familiar. His stomach clenches. No. He can’t have failed that horribly, can he? “Look at me, Archivist.”_

_Jon doesn_ _’t want to look, but he can’t refuse a request from that voice._

_The darkness doesn_ _’t interfere with his sight at all now. Martin stands there. What_ was _Martin. His clothes, what_ _’s left of them, are coated with muck. Where his body shows through it is sunken and riddled with festering holes. An avalanche of silver worms pours in a torrent from the pit of his mouth and—_

Jon comes awake with a shout.

His body is drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. Afraid he will find the space beside him empty, he hesitates to reach out in the dark. He does, though, can’t help it for long, and when he sweeps his hand out, he hasn’t far to go to find Martin, already reaching for him in return.

“Hey,” Martin says, his voice soft and right and reassuring. He is here in bed and Martin is with him and everything is all right. It’s difficult to say if Martin pulls him in close or if he pushes his way there, but it doesn’t matter, only that he tucks up to Martin’s chest, needing to feel every inch of him. His heart hasn’t yet calmed. Martin runs a hand up and down his arm. “You’re okay, Jon, you’re okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The alarm clock informs him it’s half three in the morning and he winces.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to wake you, go back to sleep.”

“I don’t mind.” Martin presses a kiss to his temple and keeps his mouth there. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It was the tunnels again.” Jon’s breath shudders. He knows the iron tang in the air is only his imagination, but knowing it doesn’t help. “It was—like Prentiss infected you. I couldn’t help you.”

Martin rearranges them, setting Jon between his legs with his back up against his chest, resting his chin on Jon’s shoulder. His hands continue to caress at their leisure, his breath warm on Jon’s skin. “I have nightmares like that sometimes too. Where you died because I left you behind. But it’s all right. She’s gone and we’re both still here. We’re right here.”

His arms come around Jon’s middle as though to emphasize the point.

Jon turns his face to give Martin a hard kiss. He needs that, too, to really know he hasn’t lost Martin. They _are_ here. When they part he says, “I want to go back to the tunnels. You said you would come.”

Martin exhales, and though Jon cannot fully read his face in the dark, the lack of enthusiasm runs through his voice. “I will.”

“I think Elias knows more about them than he’s let on,” Jon presses. He’s loathe to push Martin into doing anything he doesn’t want to, and it isn’t that he wants to be beneath the Institute himself, but there’s more to be found, he knows it. “He might know more about Gertrude’s death, as well.”

“I told you I wouldn’t be surprised if he did it,” Martin says, his fingers skimming absently over Jon’s bare stomach. “He’s sort of…you know…shifty? Didn’t you say he told you she was killed in the line of duty? That sounds sort of like he was making a joke of it, to me.”

“He did say that.” Jon leans his head back, his eyes skimming the room without coming to focus on anything. Enough of this. “Let’s talk about this in the morning.” For now, all he wants is to nestle as close to Martin as he can. His voice drops. “Thank you for tolerating my—all of this.”

“I’m not _tolerating_ anything,” Martin says, and he hears the affection in it as clearly as if it were being kissed into every inch of his skin.

Martin arranges them all over again; it’s a long time before Jon’s able to drift back into sleep, but the rise and fall of Martin’s chest behind him does wonders.

* * *

Martin had sort of hoped his days of being in the Institute at ungodly hours were over. (He probably should have known better.) He wasn’t going to tell Jon ‘no’ and have the man going into the tunnels alone again. So here he is, stood apprehensive over the trapdoor shortly after midnight, a heavy-duty torch clutched in one hand. He tells himself, cold comfort that it is, that it might double as a weapon if he really needs it to. It’s awfully weighty.

Beside him, Jon kneels on the floor, taking stock of his pack. They’ve brought along plenty of extra batteries (Martin hates the idea of this taking long enough for them to come into use), bottled water, several granola bars, chalk, and a camera that, while cheap, is still better quality than either of their phones. Martin is beginning to wish they’d also brought anti-nausea medication, the way his stomach is behaving.

They haven’t even opened the door yet.

The trouble, entire situation aside, is he hasn’t revisited the tunnels since he ran screaming out of them, tears tracked down his face, babbling about the corpse of the former Head Archivist. Any curiosity he might have felt about what else they’ve got to hide has been squashed quite effectively beneath the blind panic they instill in him. They’ve been the subject of his own nightmares as often as they have Jon’s; what a pair they make, the two of them!

But Jon’s come down, and his experiences in these tunnels were no better than his own. If Jon can find the bravery to walk them alone, he can bloody well find the bravery to walk them in Jon’s company.

“All right,” Jon says, the familiar briskness in his tone a comfort, even if Martin thinks it is just a mask for his own nerves, “we have everything. Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Martin manages to train most of the fear from his voice. Not all of it. (But he would estimate sixty-percent, if asked.)

Then Jon hauls the trapdoor open, and though its hinges glide in silence, Martin imagines the worms’ dying scream when the door _thuds_ gently onto the floor. He says, “You wouldn’t mind holding my hand?”

Jon has already taken the first few stairs, his legs disappearing into the dark maw of the tunnel. His torch is off, dangling precariously from his hand. He peers up at Martin, his eyes steely and almost bright in the room’s dim light. “I seem to recall that being how all this started.”

Martin manages a shaky smile. “I only ran away the first time.”

Jon chuckles and offers him a hand. “Come on then.”

Martin swallows his fear (which only leads to it settling in his stomach), and takes it.

The stairwell is narrow, not really intended for two, so Jon goes just in front of him. Martin keeps his eyes on the base of Jon’s neck, finding it far better than looking around. The chair chills as they go deeper, and he thinks he should have put on another layer. He slips on a damp patch on the bottom step, but Jon is there to catch him, and his feet land softly in the dirt. He takes a moment to enjoy Jon’s hand on his side, much as he can enjoy anything at the moment.

Jon clicks his torch on. The beam is impressively reminiscent of the sun, but the darkness here is still the sort that wants to consume. Martin fumbles for his own torch and sweeps it in a semi-circle. There are no worms, only solid grey walls, and he tells himself they’ve stood this long, they’re not about to collapse in on him today.

(He can’t tell himself there are no monsters down here. There may well be one hiding just around the corner. But there probably isn’t.)

Jon takes his hand again and squeezes.

He squeezes back and forces a conversational tone. “Didn’t you say the walls changed last time? Are we not worried about that now?”

Jon looks less than confident when he says, “It didn’t become a problem until I was…deeper. I’m hopeful that it will be all right. We can go, if you would prefer.”

Martin gives him a reluctant shake of the head. They’re already down here, they may as well stay. “Which way then?”

Jon indicates the right. “I went this way, before. We can cover some of the same ground.”

They walk for long minutes in the company of their own breathing. Martin, for his part, cannot recall much of these tunnels. He was too focused on running before, and though it all looks very different in places, the tunnels going wide and then narrow, crooked and then straightforward, he cannot place any of it in his memory. Besides, he hadn’t any light, before, had relied on the adjustment of his eyes. They follow Jon’s chalk arrows as they come across them.

“What are we expecting to find?” Martin asks when he cannot stand the quiet. The tunnel does odd, echoing things to his voice.

“I don’t know,” Jon admits. He points his torch to the left, where there’s another arrow. “The police took Gertrude away chair and all, and I’m sure there are no tapes left down here, but I can’t help feeling like I’m missing something important. These tunnels feel different from the Archive, and well—what was Gertrude _doing_ down here?”

“Something creepy, probably,” Martin says, and Jon makes an amused sound before distracting himself with refreshing the old chalk arrow.

Time is difficult to track here; every time Martin checks his phone he is surprised and disappointed to discover it’s been hardly a few minutes since he last looked. Though their hands eventually fall apart for ease of retrieving things from pockets, he walks as close to Jon as he comfortably can without them stumbling over each other; he lost him here once before and has no intention of doing so again.

After a while, they turn a corner and are faced with a door. A chill that has nothing to do with the temperature sweeps up Martin’s skin. This isn’t the first door they’ve found; there are few enough of them in the tunnels, mostly solid walls and false doors and the occasional aperture leading to a cramped, barren room, but there _are_ doors, and this is the first of them to set Martin shaking.

“Are you all right?” Jon asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s just that I think this is where I…where she, y’know.” Martin attempts and fails to smile, and says, hating himself a little for it, “I don’t want to go in there.”

It’s just an empty room now. He knows it is. There’s no body there. But she’s there in his head, the slumped outline it had taken him a minute to identify in the dark, and he’d run from it, run from her, but he was still _lost_ here, had thought he’d never find his way out, and he can’t stop the shaking that practically rattles through his body, and then Jon is right there, arms wrapping around him, mouth just below his ear because Jon isn’t quite tall enough.

“I don’t want to,” Martin says again, the tunnel walls emphasizing the pathetic notes of his voice.

“No,” Jon says, and he doesn’t sound the least bit irritated with Martin’s reaction to being here, _here_ , again. “We won’t. Do you want to go?”

“Please,” Martin says.

“Very well.” Jon kisses him first on the cheek and then on the mouth, one hand visiting Martin’s hair before slotting their fingers back together. “Let’s go home.”


	14. stupid, sneaking

“Have either of you seen the Andrea Nunis file?” Jon’s voice breaks into the overbearing quiet of the Archive.

Martin can see at a glance that he hasn’t, but Tim taps his pen on a manila folder at the edge of his own desk and says, “Got it here.”

Jon crosses the room, Martin’s eyes following him all the way, lingering as he stands beside Tim’s desk, flicking pensively through the file. He catches Tim smirking at him—which is better than Tim making some suggestive remark—and forces his attention back to the information spread out in front of him.

“Thank you, Tim,” Jon says a moment on, already distracted, already moving back toward his office, to whatever comes next. He pauses in his doorway. “Martin, would you mind—”

“Tea?” Martin guesses.

“Please,” Jon says, just enough grateful affection in it for Martin to recognize, and Martin smiles, which is a perfectly professional behavior Elias can’t possibly complain about. “My throat’s a bit dry today and I’d like to record this statement in a little while.”

“Sure, just let me finish what I’m doing here.” What he’s doing being an unfortunate attempt at parsing out some truly awful Latin. He’s pretty sure this statement is nothing real, but they might at least have put more effort into their prank. The portion he’s already translated indicates ‘the dogs will rise’ and he’s come over curious to see what comes next before he officially tells Jon he’s sorting Franklin Owen into the discredited section.

Jon gives him a smile where he once would have gotten a scowl, probably, and disappears into his office, the door not quite closed behind him.

“So,” Tim says, drawing the word out until Martin’s eyebrows have nearly met in the middle. “What’s that like?”

“Sorry?” It’s not nearly the first time Tim has thrown out a question about his and Jon’s relationship in the week or so since they’ve come out with it. More than one has been the sort to throw color into Martin’s cheeks, and as it’s just the two of them in the Archive at the moment, Sasha having gone out for lunch forty minutes ago, he really hopes this isn’t going to be another of those. “What’s what like?”

“Is he the same at home?”

“I guess?” Martin shrugs. “He’s still Jon, you know. But sweeter, in a sort of…Jon…way.”

“Jon. Sweeter.” Tim appears to be trying to stuff the words together like pieces of a mismatched jigsaw. Then he scratches at a spot just beside his hairline, right on a half-hidden worm scar, and his frown sobers. “Is he doing okay? I mean, he says he’s fine, but you would know.”

“I think so,” Martin says, not quite evasively. More like the proper answer is eluding him, so how’s he meant to hand it off to Tim?

Jon has been doing better recently. Really, he has. He’s not all right exactly, but neither of them are; they’re just muddling along as well as they can, and Martin’s sure they’re making things better for each other, something to cling to in the dark. Jon is significantly less suspicious of Tim and Sasha now, so that’s a step in the right direction.

“What about you?” Martin asks. “How are you doing?”

Tim gives him the typical roguish grin. “You know me. I’m always all right.”

Martin doesn’t really buy it, but it’s Tim’s choice whether or not to let him in. “Right, well if you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”

“Do I?” Tim’s voice takes on a note of solemnity. “Do I know where to find anything down here? I’ve misplaced myself at least three times this week.”

Martin laughs. “I wasn’t filed by Gertrude, so I shouldn’t be that difficult to locate.”

He surveys what’s left of the Latin. At a glance, the next sentence is a poorly conjugated ‘sleep and hide in ritual,’ with a disconnected ‘water’ dropped at the end; it makes his head hurt for perfectly mundane reasons. He’s had enough roughshod Latin for the moment, and tea might make it easier to deal with; tea’ll digest more easily, at least. Halfway to standing he says, “D’you want some of that tea while I’m up?”

“Sure,” Tim says. “Thanks.”

The door opens before Martin’s got a hand on the knob. Sasha stands there, accompanied by a woman maybe a handful of years older than Martin; the woman’s eyes follow the motion of the door, like she suspects it of mischief. She looks as exhausted as Jon always used to, and though Martin says, “Oh, sorry,” and steps aside right away, the woman doesn’t step through the doorway till Sasha’s gone in front of her and said, “It’s all right, Ms. Richardson, our Archivist’s office is just this way.”

Martin quickly recalculates how much tea to make. If this Ms. Richardson is about to give a statement, he won’t be interrupting that, but after—she’s awfully shaky, and could probably use something hot and calming.

“Jon,” Sasha calls, and Martin excuses himself to make his way upstairs.

It’s been a perfectly ordinary day so far. The trouble with ordinary days, Martin finds himself thinking as he takes the stairs, is they rarely stay that way anymore. He quashes that thought, like something might hear him and come calling.

As he steps into the Institute’s main hallway, he sees Rosie sat alone behind her desk, eyes locked to her computer screen. He takes several steps in the direction of the kitchenette and pauses.

_Is he doing okay?_

Jon isn’t doing terribly, but he would be doing much better if they had answers. Martin has wished a hundred thousand times there was more he could do to put Jon’s mind at ease, but he’s no more a detective than Jon, and Officer Hussain is far more likely to figure it out than they are, and their only suspect has remained—

Martin’s eyes flick toward the ceiling. He shouldn’t go and talk to Elias about it. What’s that going to get him, a full confession? Hardly. More likely a cold stare and possibly fired for baseless accusations.

 _This is a bad idea,_ he thinks with every additional stair he takes, continuing up to the third floor. _I should just go and fix tea like I said I would do. This is a bad idea, Martin._

But he’d once thought kissing Jon was a bad idea that could only have horrible results, and look at them now!

_Sure, Martin, perfect comparison. Who are you trying to convince?_

He’s lifting his hand to rap at Elias’ door when one of the researchers, a choppy-haired woman he hasn’t spoken to much, but thinks might be called Evelyn, passes by and tells him, “Elias left for lunch about twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh,” Martin says. It’s probably for the best. It’s _absolutely_ for the best. He hasn’t exactly got a plan in mind for what he might have said. _Hey, Elias, you didn_ _’t happen to kill Gertrude? Stupid question, I know._ Dramatic confrontation isn’t his specialty and he hasn’t got any evidence, aside from Elias being creepy. Christ, he hates the way that man can stare. “I’ll come back later then. Have you got any idea how long he’s usually out?”

Possibly-Evelyn shakes her head. “About an hour?”

Martin thanks her and has no intention of waiting for her to be out of sight, but finds himself waiting anyhow. (Is it waiting if it also isn’t waiting?) He shifts his weight from foot to foot, chewing at his bottom lip. His hand rests on the doorknob. He doesn’t really _decide_ to turn it, his fingers developing a mind of their own, and _this is an even worse idea, Martin Blackwood you absolute idiot,_ but Elias hasn’t locked up, and the door opens soundlessly.

The lights are off. He leaves them that way, and the door open a crack, and keeps his steps as light as he can. Elias’ office is very neat, not only in comparison to the Archive, but also in comparison to the British Museum; a place for everything, and everything in its place.

Martin scans the room. What is he even doing here?

“Something stupid,” he says under his breath. “Obviously.”

It’s _incredibly_ stupid to cross the room and invade Elias’ filing cabinets, but evidently he’s being stupid today. Might as well get it all out of the way in one fell swoop, right? Most of what he flips through is meaningless, budgets and other Institute business he’s not at all interested in. This goes on for the first drawer— _time to go, Martin_ —and the second— _all right, that_ _’s enough_ —and the third— _really, you_ _’ve been here too long_ —and the fou—

_Hang on._

The fourth drawer’s contents are different from the others. There’s a familiar style of box nestled away, and Martin’s spent more than enough time reading Gertrude Robinson’s handwriting to recognize it on sight. He’s just removed the top and caught a glimpse of several tapes and what looks like a pile of statements when he hears Elias’ voice down the hall, followed by Diana’s.

_Shit._

He snatches a tape and stuffs it into his pocket before replacing the box’s lid and easing the filing cabinet shut. There’s nowhere to hide in here, and he may be doing plenty of stupid things right now, but he’s not dumb enough to try hiding.

Instead, he takes a breath and walks purposefully toward the desk, where he picks up a fountain pen Elias probably special ordered, and glances about for a notepad. There’s not one, which throws only a small wrench in the idea he’s had; he continues to look, as though a notepad might materialize.

Diana’s voice passes by the door, while Elias’ steps slow and then stop, and the door pushes open. Martin hasn’t got to pretend surprise; he catches the sour look on Elias’ face, though it’s put quickly away. He’s gotten more of those from Elias when they’ve crossed paths lately, and has idly wondered each time if Elias fancies Jon himself. (Not that it matters if he does. Jon’s taken.)

“Martin.” Elias’ voice is professional as ever, but more clipped. He sweeps a hand out to flick the lights on. “Is there a reason you’re in my office?”

Martin holds up the pen; it feels like a very poor shield. Somehow he keeps his words from shaking. “I was going to leave a note, but you don’t seem to have any paper out here.”

“What kind of note?” Elias advances on him, and he wants to turn tail and run, except he’d only be running toward a wall, and Elias isn’t threatening him. It’s reasonable for him to be approaching his own desk.

“Um.” Martin fiddles with the pen a moment before setting it aside. “It’s—Sasha’s computer? She’s been having trouble with it lately and we were thinking of possibly asking to order another, or if there’s one lying about that nobody’s using?”

Elias stares hard at him for a long time, and it takes every ounce of willpower he’s got not to look away. Eventually he says, “We’ll have it looked at. Is there anything else?”

“No,” Martin says, with a too-vigorous shake of his head. “I’ll be going then—um, I was going to make tea, did you want anything? I can make a trip back u…” His voice trails away at the unimpressed line of Elias’ mouth. “Right, you just had lunch, never mind, forget I asked.”

He hurries from the room and back down the stairs before Elias can call him back. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. But_ _…_

Martin slips his hand into his pocket to feel the tape. It might be nothing, and Elias might have a very good reason for having it, but there’s equal chance it’ll offer a clue. He dips into the kitchenette, remembering the subzero temperatures of Elias’ eyes. The smell of the tea warms him back up, and he’s nearly summoned a smile again as he navigates the treacherous steps to the basement.

Everything appears ordinary in the Archive. Jon’s office door is shut, Sasha bowed over her desk and Tim humming something off the Top Forty at his.

“You took your time,” Tim says as Martin drops a cup off to him.

“Just being social,” Martin replies, leaving a cup on Sasha’s desk, and nodding at her murmur of thanks, then having a sip of his own. Two left, one for Jon and one for Ms. Richardson. “I assume Ms. Richardson is still in there?”

“Hm?” Tim casts an almost baffled look about the Archive. “No, I think she’s gone. I’ve been too busy to pay attention.”

“She left,” Sasha says. “I was in there a moment ago.”

Martin frowns a bit at this. Now they’ve got an extra cup. Maybe Jon’ll want it. He’s taken a single step toward the office when Jon calls, “Martin, come here a moment,” in a tone Martin might describe as _deceptively calm_. He knows what Jon sounds like when he’s properly calm, and that’s not it, but if he’s taking care to sound that way…the day’s about to get even better, isn’t it?

_Me and my_ _‘trouble with ordinary days.’_

“Coming,” he calls back, and brings the tea along.

The moment he’s in the office Jon says, “Shut the door,” through clenched teeth, and Martin’s only just done so when he registers the red streaking its way down Jon’s skin.


	15. Chapter 15

Hi all,

I can’t begin to say how much it breaks my heart to do this, but I’m afraid I’m unable to finish my ongoing fics (including  _Through the looking glass, Statement Incomplete,_  and  _something rich & strange_).

Something really amazing just happened for my own writing career a lot sooner than I anticipated, and I’m absolutely delighted about it, but it also means I’m not going to have time to work on fanfic unless I want to completely run myself ragged. I would absolutely  _love_  to continue writing them (I had so many plans!), but I have to be realistic about my own limits and priorities, and unfortunately, time and energy just aren’t going to allow for it.

I can’t say this enough: I am so, so sorry to have to discontinue these. If there’s interest, I’m happy to type up something of a tl;dr on what was meant to happen in each fic.

If you’d like to chat, say hi, or demand a personal apology, feel free to reach out to me on Twitter @watcherscrown (the account appears empty, but I do exist there).

Thank you all so much for reading, for leaving kudos and comments! The enthusiasm has really kept me going on my rough days!

Again, I’m beyond sorry to do this :(


	16. being stupid and supportive (fin.)

This is much later than intended, but here's the first of the tl;drs!

It's been proofread, but not edited as much as the regular content, so please excuse the lack of fleshing out. Some portions are more thorough than others, depending on what kind of notes I already had down.

* * *

Martin, a bit hysterical between his run-in with Elias and Jon bleeding all over his office, insists on a trip to the hospital. You know, the way a logical person does, because, “We’re not running peroxide and hot water over it and hoping for the best. You might need stitches, and _I’m_ not sewing you back together.” At the hospital, Jon questions if Martin is all right.

_Martin gives him something of an incredulous look. “Really?”_

_Jon waves this off. “Not_ me. _Is there anything you need to tell me? You looked unsettled, before.”_

_..._

_Something cold settles in Jon’s stomach. Nothing’s meant to happen to Martin. Martin’s meant to be_ safe _; it’s a foolish thought, of course it is, but_ Martin is meant to be safe.

Foolish, somewhat sappy thoughts aside, Martin poses an important question.

 _“When we get home—you are going to tell me the_ truth _?”_

_The question stings, but Jon knows he deserves at least that much. He spent long enough lying to Martin, by omission where not outright. He squeezes the hand tucked into his own. “Yes, Martin.”_

Jon gets his stitches, and the two head home, where they swap tales of what happened in their days. Martin makes Jon go first.

_"What happened?”_

_"A man—no,” Jon says, quiet and thoughtful. “No, not a man.”_

They talk through everything Michael said, and in going through it together, Jon more quickly registers the first words Michael said to him: “Do you even know they’re lying to you?” Martin and Jon discuss what on earth that might mean, that Michael said it after Sasha was in the room, and Martin chooses then to slip in some of what happened with Elias, because if anyone is lying...well. Jon is reasonably concerned about this, particularly in light of Elias’ behavior after Martin’s change of address.

However, he keeps circling back to it being _Sasha_ in the room, just before. Martin argues that it was a monster talking, and, “Honestly, Jon, are you going to listen to _that_ over trusting Sasha?” and when Jon continues to be highly suspicious over dinner prep, Martin points out the time Jon accused _him_ of lying and it was about his CV. Jon sputters and apologizes again, and Martin seems somewhat guilty for having brought that back around, and says, while they’re eating, it can’t hurt to keep an eye on her, that she’s been going on long lunches more frequently than she used to.

_Martin carries their plates away to the sink, saying, “But Jon, I do think we ought to focus on Elias. I don’t like the way he looks at me.”_

_It occurs to Jon, belatedly perhaps,_ he _doesn’t like the way Elias looks at Martin, either; and Martin is meant to be safe. He drags himself out of his chair heavily, as if he were pulling free of thick mud, and crosses the kitchen to take Martin by the elbow and say, “Enough.”_

_Martin’s brows knit together. “Jon?”_

_“Enough of this,” Jon clarifies, “for tonight.”_

_“You don’t think we should—”_

_“Martin.” The exhaustion of the day drags at him, and he fears for a moment he may go to his knees here in the kitchen, and then it’s more temptation than fear, the thought of pressing his forehead to the curve of Martin’s thigh, but the kitchen floor is a poor place for it, and Martin touches his hair, and his mouth, and Martin looks like he’ll do just about anything Jon asks, now, and Jon makes his request a simple one: “Leave the dishes for later. I want to go to bed.”_

_Martin doesn’t point out that it’s early._

_Martin doesn’t argue that they need to finish this conversation._

_Martin doesn’t tell him to go ahead, he’ll be in shortly._

_Martin brushes his lips over Jon’s forehead, and Martin says, “All right, let’s go to bed,” and Martin takes him by the hand, and Jon doesn’t deserve any part of him._

Martin finishes getting ready for bed first, and Jon, rather than just brushing his teeth and changing for bed, brushes his teeth and reappears in the bedroom, where Martin’s waiting with a lamp still lit, and,

_Jon slides onto Martin’s lap, his unsteadiness having nothing to do with Martin, and Martin’s hands are quickly at his hips, balancing him._

_“You’re very naked,” Martin observes._

_“I thought you liked that,” Jon says._

_“It wasn’t a complaint.” Martin’s hold on him tightens, and adjusts, and he catches Jon’s mouth for a long, luxurious kiss, one that has Jon’s toes curling, one that reminds Jon why it is he so enjoys kissing Martin Blackwood. When they part, Martin says, “Are you all right, Jon?”_

_“Yes,” Jon says, and knows he is lying, and knows it is a harmless lie, but he doesn’t want to lie to Martin, and so he says, as well, “No.”_

_Martin touches his face. “Tell me what you need.”_

_“I just want to feel you.” Jon allows himself another kiss, and leans his head to Martin’s. “Please.”_

_“All right,” Martin says; one hand leaves Jon’s hip, wraps loosely around his cock instead, and Jon exhales a breathless moan. He strokes Jon to full hardness, pulls his own name from Jon’s lips before, “Okay?”_

_Jon’s answer is a fumbling for the bedside table, for the bottle of lubricant he presses into Martin’s hand; he needs more, needs to be_ here _, with Martin looking at him that way, eyes warm with an affection he’d drown in, were he able. (The thought, abundantly saccharine as it is, would have mortified him once, would have curled his lip, and he curses himself for a fool, for the way he looked on Martin, then.) He rests his cheek on Martin’s shoulder, hips rolling down when Martin’s fingers work him open._

_“I’ve got you,” Martin murmurs, and Jon blinks very hard, and might almost forget the events of the day, if the smell of antiseptic didn’t linger in his nose and the memory of pain sting at his hand._

_Martin takes his time with him, works him to the edge of climax with only familiarity and his fingers, two and then three and then—Jon cries out, shivering and helpless on Martin’s hand, and Martin’s tongue soothes over a spot of Jon’s neck as he carries him through release. He feels vulnerable this way, nude and straddling Martin’s lap, riding his hand; but he also feels safe in Martin’s arms, allowed to be helpless with him the way he cannot be anywhere else._

_“Better?” Martin says, pulling his other hand through Jon’s hair._

_Jon says nothing, only turns his face to kiss Martin’s palm before moving gracelessly between his legs, where he frees the erection that’s been hot beneath him. He’d never seen the appeal in tasting another man’s cock until the first time he grew curious enough to cup Martin’s balls in his palm and lick a long strip up him; as it happened, the appeal lay in the sound Martin made, the high shock in it and on his face, as well as the way he yanked at Jon’s hair, and apologized for it until Jon swallowed around him._

_There are fingers in his hair now, and Martin’s frantic breath above him, and he meets his lover’s eyes; Martin’s upper lip is caught in his teeth, but when the orgasm takes him, he practically shouts “_ Jon _” and that, more than anything, is what eases the tightness in his chest._

_He stays where he is, his cheek on Martin’s trembling thigh, until Martin’s regained his breath enough to say, “Better?”_

_“Better,” Jon says hoarsely._

_Martin tugs at his shoulder. “Come here, Jonathan.”_

_“I thought I already had.” This time it’s Jon’s laugh verging on the hysterical, but he pushes himself up the mattress again._

_Martin snorts. “You’ve been spending too much time with Tim.”_

_“Probably,” Jon says, and settles with Martin’s arm over his shoulder. “Martin, I...tell me you’ll be careful. Please.”_

_“I’ll be careful,” Martin says._

_“Promise me.”_

_“I promise.” Martin presses the words into his hair. “I’m here, and I love you, and everything is going to be all right. I promise.”_

_And however much is true or guaranteed or even probable, Martin_ is _here, and Martin loves him whether or not he deserves it, and in this moment everything is all right._

The events of season 2 carry on much the way they did in canon, though with Martin being a positive influence in his life, Jon is significantly less suspicious of Tim, and slightly more of Elias, and neither Jon nor Martin are entirely sure what to make of Sasha’s irregular behavior. When Jon is given access to the CCTV footage, Martin watches it with him and they’re both mystified, as it doesn’t look like Elias can possibly have been responsible for Gertrude’s death, but as Elias has continued to be incredibly discomfiting where Martin is concerned, and as things are clearly abnormal in the Institute, they don’t rule him out.

Jon breaks into Gertrude’s flat, but not without running the idea by Martin.

_“I’m sorry,” Martin says through his teeth, fighting to keep a smile on his face, “you want to do what?”_

_“There could be something there.”_

_“You could also get arrested.”_

_“It’s worth the risk.”_

_“Is it?”_

_“We’re not getting anywhere carrying on the way we have been.” Jon’s gaze is perfectly level, and Martin wonders what it might take to drive into his head that breaking into a dead woman’s flat is mental._

_But Jon is right: there could be something there. Martin sighs and says an exasperated, “So this is what we’re doing, is it, taking turns being stupid and supportive?”_

_“There are worse things to be.”_

_Martin rolls his eyes and pours himself a fresh cup of tea. “Fine, then.”_

_Jon’s got the nerve to smile at him; Martin’s rubbish at not smiling back._

When Basira quits the police force and brings Jon the tapes, Martin and Jon have a lengthy conversation about what to do with them; they’ve _both_ seen Sasha going into the tunnels, and Leitner coming out, and considered it in conjunction with what Michael said. They’re relatively sure something is up with Sasha, but neither has any inkling what that something is.

And then Melanie comes back through, and brings up Sasha, adding another layer of confusion to the entire situation. They review the statement from ‘The Kind Mother’ together, but Jon tells Martin he can’t find the other relevant statement, though he has. He reads Lawrence Moore’s statement by himself.

 _It isn’t Sasha. It hasn’t_ been _Sasha for months, and he feels sick to his stomach._

Do you even know they’re lying to you?

 _No. He hadn’t known. He might never have known, and Sasha—the real Sasha—the Sasha he can’t even picture in his mind, not even after hearing her voice, she’s just_ gone _—Sasha has been dead, and they’ve been treating her imposter like a part of the team._

_Jon pushes PLAY again. Listens to Sasha scream, and pushes thumb and forefinger into his eyes, and hates himself because he should have known._

_Somehow, he should have known._

_Melanie knew. That’s worth revisiting, later._

He tells Martin they’re going to wait to deal with the Sasha situation.

He tells himself it’s okay to tell Martin this lie, that it’s meant to protect him—that he has to.

He sends Martin on a pointless errand, proceeds to buy an ax, and sends Tim on his way.

_Martin is out of harm’s way, and he’s going to do his best to kill the monster._

_Jon casts one last look over his shoulder—alone in Artefact Storage—and raises the ax high._

Heading back from the pointless errand, Martin runs into Tim, who tells him Jon said he’s not feeling well and sent him home.

_Martin looks at Tim, and the staircase, and back, something black pooling in his gut. “What about Sasha?” It isn’t Sasha, of course, and the name feels wrong and cold and bitter on his tongue, but he’s not in any mood to explain that to Tim._

_“What about her?” Tim looks nonplussed. “He said he’d tell her himself.”_

_Martin utters a string of curses that lifts Tim’s eyebrows nearly to his hairline and pushes past him, dropping his shopping bag. “Idiot,” he says, himself and Jon, and_ why _didn’t he think to buy about fifty more weapons while he was out there picking up wires and additional torch batteries. “You absolute idiot, Jon, if you get yourself killed, I—”_

_“Whoa!” Tim wheels round to follow him. Their feet are loud on the stairs, loud on the basement floor; it’s all Martin can do not to scream down the hall, into the Archive, at his stupid bloody boyfriend trying to play the hero. “Martin, he’s just ill, why are you—”_

_“He’s not ill.” Martin throws the Archive door open and scans the stacks. Empty. He pushes on to Jon’s office, and his heart sinks at the sight of the empty chair. The trapdoor to the tunnels is undisturbed._

_Down or up?_

_Martin bites down on his fist to suppress a sound of frustration. Where’s he meant to go? Why’s his boyfriend got to be so bloody stubborn and stupid and—lying, again. They were meant to wait. They were meant to be in this together._

_Down, he decides, and fetches one of the heavy-duty torches they’ve stowed away in Jon’s office, and hauls the trapdoor open._

_The black of the tunnel gazes up at him._

_“Martin,” Tim tries again, sounding uncertain, none of his usual bravado. “What’s wrong?”_

_“Sasha’s dead,” Martin says, his own voice far calmer than before, even as Tim sputters, “and we’ve been working with something else, and I can’t lo—I can’t let Jon do this by himself.”_

Tim, despite being lost and more than a little bit alarmed by Martin (and Jon’s) erratic behavior, grabs an extra torch and follows him down into the tunnels. The run-in with Michael takes place, with the difference that Martin knows what Michael is this time; he still stands up to it, and it’s fascinated by his determination, even while Tim is freaking out.

 _“I’m going to him,” Martin says. If Michael doesn’t want them in the tunnels, if Michael doesn’t want them coming to the Archivist’s rescue—some rescue party they are—it means Jon_ is _down here. “I_ am _.”_

_Michael shows its teeth and he flinches. “No,” it says, “you’re not.”_

Michael, ever the helpful creature, gives them a door.

Meanwhile, Jon plays his game of hide-and-seek with Not-Sasha. It’s rather horrid to him, where Martin is considered.

_“He would never know,” the beast says, conversational even through the growl. “I could wear your life and he would never know the difference. I think I’d enjoy that. I think he would, too.”_

_Jon shudders, tightening the hand over his mouth._ He would know, _he tells himself. Martin would know._

_“How long do you suppose I could carry on with him? Wouldn’t the truth be a lovely anniversary present? Imagine his face when I go down on one knee only to tell him—”_

_“Shut up!” Bursts out of him before he can think to stop it. The thought was too much. He’s hardly dared allow himself to imagine anniversaries with Martin, to think this beast would take his place at Martin’s side._

_The beast’s laugh is more snarl. “There you are.”_

_Jon scrambles backwards. He’s going to die. He’s going to die here in the dark and this_ thing _will put its hands on Martin’s face, will whisper in his ear, will..._

Leitner rescues Jon, only to be brutally put down by Elias. Tim is a lot less convinced it was Jon’s doing, and Martin is more than a little suspicious of Elias.

 _“Do you know where he is?” Martin says to Elias, when Daisy has gone from the Institute, looking shaken. He’d wished it were Basira here instead. Daisy wasn’t interested in a word he had to say, not_ really _, not if he weren’t agreeing that yes, of course Jon’s responsible for the murder of—whomever that was. The memory still makes him shudder._

_Elias continues to peruse whatever it is he’s perusing. Takes a long sip of his tea. Finally, he says, “Yes.”_

_“Tell me.”_

_“No.” Now Elias looks up and smiles. Thinly. Sardonically. Coldly. It’s easy to imagine him beating the old man to death, blood on his face. Easy to imagine him smiling just like that while he did. “If he hasn’t told you himself, Jon’s whereabouts are none of your concern.”_

_“He didn’t tell you, either.”_

_“No?” Elias looks bemused. “You’re sure of that?”_

_“I’m positive,” Martin says flatly, and walks away, already freeing his phone from his pocket. Just to check._

_Nothing._

Martin gets into the habit of leaving Jon improbably long, rambling voicemails every night. He doesn’t know if Jon is listening to them, but he’s alone in their flat, surrounded by Jon’s things, unable to do anything but worry, and it helps, a little. (Except it doesn’t, really.)

_“It’s weird, without you. Just me and Tim, and Elias sometimes...he said he knows where you are, but he won’t tell me anything. I hope you’re safe, Jon.”_

_“I’ve been reading some of your books. I even think I like a few of them. Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”_

_“Melanie...she’s working with us now. In the Archive. I don’t think she should be. I’ve got a really bad feeling about everything, but I still don’t think I can leave.”_

_“I miss you.”_

Jon, meanwhile, listens to every voicemail Martin leaves. He drafts countless texts without ever hitting send. He doesn’t want to put Martin in any danger. There’s no doubt the police will want him for Leitner’s murder, they’re probably already watching Martin, and he can’t take the chance.

_Jon’s lost track of how many times he’s typed ‘I’m sorry’ and saved the draft without sending it. Martin deserves better than this, but he can’t reconcile the risk._

_Georgie stands in the doorway, her head cocked curiously to one side. “You really love him, don’t you?”_

_Jon says, “Yes.”_

_Georgie smiles. “I’m happy for you.” The smile fades. “Why not go home to him then?”_

_"I can’t. Not yet.”_

_He doesn’t say, I don’t know if he’ll want me to._

Much remains the same, but when Jon returns to the Institute with Daisy, the reunion isn’t _quite_ the way it was.

_Martin’s knees nearly go out at the sight of Jon standing in Elias’ office. He wants to run across the room and card his fingers through Jon’s hair, touch his face and make sure he’s actually there, squeeze his hand and—his eyes stop, there. Something’s happened to Jon’s hand._

_Christ._

_Jon looks exhausted. More than that, he looks haunted. Martin would almost say hunted. Their eyes meet, and there’s nothing composed about the way Martin crosses the room. It doesn’t matter that Elias is here, and Tim, and Melanie, Basira and Daisy; it only matters that Jon is here, and Martin is just restrained enough to not leap on him, to settle for a hand on his face and a murmured, “Hello.”_

_“Martin,” Jon says, a hesitance in it, and Martin attempts a smile, but feels particularly unsuccessful. “I have to—”_

_“Right.” Martin lets his hand fall away, stung, trying not to be._

_..._

_[when Jon comes downstairs to the Archive, following]_

_The door eases open and Jon steps through, looking as if he’s not sure whether or not he belongs. Martin goes still._

_Tim shoves up from his desk. “Right,” he says, sudden and brusque, “I’ll just go, then. Melanie, you too.”_

_“But I don’t—” Melanie begins to protest, and Tim gives her a smile with an awful lot of teeth in it, closing his fingers over her wrist and pulling her toward the door, saying, “Jon,” as they pass by._

_For a long time, neither Martin nor Jon say anything. They only look at each other. Martin_ wants _to speak, but finds he’s afraid of what he might say._

_Eventually Jon says, “I’m sorry, Martin,” and there’s not a thing Martin can do about the tears pricking at his eyes. Jon looks panicked at this, begins to take a step forward and stops._

_“You’re an absolute bastard,” Martin says, swiping uselessly at his eyes. His voice shakes. “D’you know that?”_

_“Yes,” Jon says, “I know that.”_

_“Two months, Jon.”_

_“I know.”_

_“You were in contact with_ Melanie _. She said.”_

_“I did that to protect you.”_

_Martin doesn’t mean to laugh, and he especially doesn’t mean to laugh the_ way _he does. It just bursts out of him. He looks away, but his gaze is drawn quickly back to Jon’s expression, and then to his hand. “What happened to your hand?”_

_Jon lifts his hand, stretches his fingers out with a rueful smile. “I did something stupid.”_

_“You’re good at that,” Martin says, and watches Jon wince. “Sorry.”_

_“No.” Jon rubs at the back of his neck with his injured hand. “I deserve that.”_

_“So,” Martin says._

_“So,” Jon echoes._

_“What happens now?” He’s not talking about what happened upstairs. Not talking about them all being trapped here, not talking about the Institute—the Archive—whatever—being under the sway of something more monstrous than he could have imagined; he hopes Jon knows it._

_“Now,” Jon says carefully, and sighs, holds out his hands in a hopeless gesture, gives him an equally hopeless smile. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have done that to you, and you’ve every right to be angry with me. I listened to your messages, I don’t know how many times. Your voice...it helped, and I want—well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter what I want now. I can go back to Georgie’s—she’s a friend—if—”_

_“Don’t be stupid,” Martin snaps, his voice cracking on the last word; he’s surprised it didn’t crack on every word, multiple times. “You’re coming home.”_

_Relief spreads over Jon’s face, throughout his entire sagging frame, and when he takes a step toward Martin he stumbles a little. Martin meets him in the middle, catches him by the shoulders and kisses him, mumbling, “Don’t you ever do that again,” and, “I don’t know how many times I can forgive you,” and, “I love you, you absolute bastard,” in between._

_Jon only says, “I love you,” again, and again and again, like he’s doing his best to make up for two months’ worth of it._

When it’s time for Jon to go off on his Unknowing-research treasure hunt, Martin insists on going with him. Jon’s already been kidnapped once, and Martin’s not feeling particularly willing to let the Archivist out of sight.

_“You’re not leaving me behind again!” Martin says hotly._

_“It’s too dangerous—”_

_“Sure, because it’s perfectly safe here!” He jerks a finger toward the ceiling. Maybe Elias sees him do it. He doesn’t give a damn either way._

While they’re off on this treasure hunt, Jon worries over what’s happening to him, particularly following the conversation with the remains of Gerard Keay.

_“I don’t think I’m human, Martin.” They’re sitting at the foot of the bed in a motel room. Jon can’t calm his thoughts, hasn’t been able to for days, since before Julia and Trevor—Martin had been wide-eyed at the both of them—and the false police officer, and...Gerard. Gerry._

_Martin gives him a considering look. “That’s okay.”_

_“I think I’m becoming a monster,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to. How to make Martin understand._

_“You’re not—oh.” Martin pauses and chews at his lower lip. “You mean...do you really think so?”_

_Jon nods._

_“Oh.”_

_“I think I’m becoming...the Archivist, whatever that means.” He gestures, a vague thing. “Whatever that_ is _. I’m pulling answers out of people.”_

_Martin takes his hand. “Ask me something then.”_

_Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you afraid of me?”_

_An odd look passes over Martin’s face, even as his mouth opens. “No. Never.”_

Upon returning to London, things remain much the same. Tim comes clean about his brother a lot more willingly, not so dead set against confiding in Jon. The plan to take care of the Unknowing is unchanged, with Martin meant to stay behind, though he’s far from happy about it.

The afternoon before the larger group is due to depart, Jon takes Martin down into the tunnels alone.

_Martin’s nose wrinkles. “You’re not trying to change the plan, are you?”_

_Jon draws him to a stop. They’re not deep, just below the surface, really. He sets torches carefully around them, enough to provide something resembling decent lighting. “I just don’t want Elias to see this,” he says._

_Martin blinks at him, his eyes unadjusted. “See what?”_

_Jon fumbles in his pocket. “If we all survive this, I was hoping you might, ah.”_

_“Jonathan Sims,” Martin says, “are you asking me to marry you?”_

_“I know I’ve been awful,” Jon says, eventually managing to free the box, and to open it. The ring is simple silver, ornamented with a white sapphire, and he hasn’t a clue if Martin will even_ like _it, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Martin turns him down._

_Potentially die in a day’s time, either way._

_“Martin,” he begins again, unable to read Martin’s face in the poor lighting. “Would you marry me?”_

_Martin laughs, and he sounds delighted, and says, “Yes, obviously, yes,” and reels him in for a kiss._

_“You said the same when we discussed dating.”_

_“You remember that?”_

_“I remember most things with you.”_

_Martin grins at him. “I see you chose the most romantic location you could think of.”_

_“Unfortunately,” Jon says, grasping at Martin’s hand till he_ holds still _, and then sliding the ring onto his finger, “this is the only place I know of where I could make this ours.”_

_“Right,” Martin says, deflating for the briefest moment before admiring his hand and saying a rather dreamy, “Martin Sims.”_

_“Martin Blackwood-Sims, I thought.”_

Martin politely requests that in the interest of “till death do us part,” Jon do his best not to die _before_ they’ve gotten married.

-

The ending wasn’t fully formed, but Tim was intended to survive. Martin and Jon would have gotten married. Things would have ended without season 4 taking place.

* * *

I have to say thank you again for all your support until now, and for all of the incredibly supportive comments I received following my announcements.

The tl;drs for  _Through the looking glass_ and  _something rich & strange_ are in progress, but I can't make any guarantees as to when they'll be up. 


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